The Last Train Home
by Shtuff
Summary: AU. Prequel to The King's Gambit. After the Cuban Missile Crisis war between mutants and humans is brewing on the horizon. In the midst of growing persecution and hostility, two estranged friends struggle to rebuild what was lost, before it's too late.
1. Hanging by Threads

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except my own ideas.

**Well, this it folks, the prequel to _The King's Gambit. _However, new readers, you do NOT need to read _The King's Gambit _to understand this story. Hopefully everyone will be pleased to know that this story will also but _much _longer than _The King's Gambit. _As in potentially 20 chapters longer. Yeah. My muse rarely does things halfway. **

**I hope you enjoy the story. This chapter and the next one were tough. Mostly because I spent about three hours on Web M.D. with my nursing major friend, researching gunshot wounds for the sake of accuracy. So, if you see any errors, please just go with it. I'm not a medical student and those hours staring at big words and complicated explanations fried my brain. Kudos to anyone who can put up with it for a living. **

**Now entering the medical drama portion. Please fasten your seatbelts and avoid any comparisons to _House_ or _Grey's Anatomy. _And review. It makes the ride go faster. **

**Above all else, enjoy!  
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><p><em>Sometimes, a new life takes time to build, brick by brick, layer by layer. It isn't always beautiful, hardly ever perfect, and it can be painful, heart-breaking, exhilarating, and devastating. <em>

_But in the end, it's worth it._

* * *

><p>Raven paces.<p>

Back and forth, back and forth across the hospital floor until she's sure her feet are wearing grooves in the stained linoleum. Against the wall, Sean sits with his head buried in his hands while Alex stares blankly into empty space. They are as filthy, worn out, and terrified as she is, but she pays them no mind.

Her thoughts are only on one person—trapped behind the imposing doors of the operating room.

His blood is still coating her hands and the fabric of her jumpsuit and when she pauses long enough to stare at it, the past flickers across her mind in a series of images and sounds.

_"Hang on, Charles! Oh, God, Hank, he's bleeding everywhere!" _

_ "We have to get him to a hospital! He's going to bleed to death." _

_ "How? They just __**shot **__at us, man. They're not going to help us." _

_ "I can …" Wheeze. Gasp. She knots her fingers tighter through his and tries very hard not to weep. "…make them." Trembling fingers reach for his temple. Fall short. Thud back into the sand until she drags his wrist up into the proper place, ignoring the way blood smears across his pale skin. _

_ He can't die. He can't he can't he can't. _

By some miracle—_or maybe not a miracle, maybe just __**Charles—**_the men on the ships had bent to Charles's will and transported them to a Florida navy yard a few miles away, across the water.

_"He's still bleeding! Hank!" _

_ "Just hang on! Keep pressure on the wound! The bullet must have hit an artery!" _

_ "I think I'm going to be sick." _

_ "Don't you dare move, Sean! Keep pressure on the wound!" _

_ His head in her lap. Blue eyes unfocused and pain-laced. Blood seeping everywhere, all over the leather car seats and their clothes and __**everything. **__Alex's panicked eyes in the rearview mirror and Sean's fingers slipping on the blood soaked cloth until she replaces it with something else, pressing down with everything she has and pretending that Charles's hoarse cry of pain doesn't cut her straight to the bone. _

_ Hold on hold on hold on. _

They'd barreled into the hospital, screaming for _someone, anyone _to help them, and a flurry of paramedics had rushed to the car with a stretcher. She'd watched, in shock, as they fitted an oxygen mask over her brother's face, pried Sean's shaking hands away and taken over his job of trying to quench the seemingly endless flow of blood.

They shouted back and forth to each other. Things she didn't understand like: _"Tell OR we're coming!" _and _"Femoral artery was grazed!" _And some things she did: _"He's fading!" "We're losing him!" "Get a crash cart here now!" _

Then a doctor had been there, examining the wounds as everyone rushed toward the OR in a blood-stained, panicked exodus. They'd stopped briefly to get him adjusted and in that moment, Charles's hand shot out, gripping the doctor's wrist.

"No … no … metal," he rasped around the oxygen mask and the doctor's eyes went wide. The storm abated as everyone paused, watching the exchange with a mixture of apprehension and shock.

"My dear boy, without it—"

"_No metal,_" Charles hissed and his eyes were feverish in his face—wild and determined and flickering with the last vestiges of life.

She stepped forward—emotions crashing around in her chest because her brother was _dying, _damn it, and everyone was just _standing _there—and screamed. "For the love of God, just listen to him!"

Silence descended until Charles heaved a gasp and collapsed back against the stretcher and everything rocketed forward at super-speed.

_"Do as she says! Get him into surgery now! We have to close that wound before he bleeds to death!" "Where's that crash cart!" "Try to keep him stable!" _

They rushed off in a flurry of white and red, leaving her and the others alone in the hallway, soaked in Charles's blood and feeling like the world just ended.

Raven jerks, pulling herself out of the past, and drops her hands to her side as she scans the surrounding area for a bathroom. The blood feels like it's burning her and she has to get it off _right now. _Spotting a sign for the ladies room, she jogs toward it without bothering to tell the others where she's going. She doubts they'd hear her, anyway.

In the safety of the bathroom, she blanches at her reflection in the mirror. Her blond hair hangs in her face and not even her powers can hide the dirt and blood marring her skin and clothes. With shaking hands, she turns on the tap and thrusts her hands under the lukewarm spray. The blood runs off in a river of red, pooling in the sink.

She wants to cry.

Instead, she splashes some water on her face and takes a few deep breaths to calm herself. She needs to be strong. For Charles. For Havok and Banshee and Beast. For herself.

For Erik Lensherr, whom she can't decide if she loves or hates.

Sean looks up when she steps back into the waiting room and his skin is so pale his freckles look almost vibrant red. She tries to smile at him, but she's pretty sure it comes out as a grimace. He says nothing in return so she goes back to pacing.

Back and forth, back and forth across the stained linoleum until his head drops back into his hands and the silence settles in.

* * *

><p>Three hours, forty-five minutes, and thirty-seven seconds later, the same doctor as before breezes through the OR doors.<p>

She stops in the middle of the waiting room, watching him approach with baited breath as Sean and Alex both lurch unsteadily to their feet. For a second, she wishes fiercely that Hank was present. He would understand whatever it is the doctor is about to say to them much more easily.

But Hank is back at a hotel room, probably climbing the walls or staring holes into the telephone.

"Family of Charles Xavier?" The doctor asks softly and she steps forward with far more bravery than she feels.

"I'm his sister."

The doctor reaches out a hand. "Dr. Barrister." She shakes it with a wobbly smile.

"Is the Professor okay?" Sean blurts from behind them, impatient and terrified in equal measure.

Dr. Barrister hesitates and Raven feels the floor drop out from underneath her. "Mr. Xavier is … stable, for the moment." He pauses, running a hand through his bedraggled, graying hair and regards them with a wary look—as if he's trying to decide how much to tell them. Raven raises her chin, silently demanding answers, and with a sigh, the doctor continues. "He lost a lot of blood. The grazed an artery. Frankly, it's a bit of a miracle he didn't bleed to death in transit."

_A miracle, _she takes a second to wonder, _or just Charles. _

"Anyway, the bullet also caused some extensive tearing and muscle damage." Dr. Barrister hesitates again. "May I asked who removed the bullet?"

A tense silence descends upon the group. Raven exchanges nervous glances with Sean and Alex, whose jaw tightens in visible anger.

"He's not with us," she says after a long moment, turning back to the doctor. "Why?"

"The bullet lodged in Mr. Xavier's patella, after breaking his femur, indicating that the bullet struck him a very high velocity from very close range. There was some fragmentation, which caused bone damage in his femur and kneecap. However, much of the damage was caused by whoever removed the bullet. It seems …" the doctor takes a deep breath. "It seems as though the bullet was forcibly ripped back out of his bone, which widened the wound and caused more nerve and muscle damage."

Alex swears violently, spinning around to plant his fist in the wall with a soft _crack, _while Sean whispers, "Oh God," over and over like a broken record, shaking and stunned.

She … She can't breathe. Erik did _this. _Erik. _Erik._

She wishes she could hate him. Feels like she _should—_hate him with all the fire that is blazing in Alex's eyes and the sick horror running tremors through Sean's body. But she can't feel anything beyond crushing sadness.

She wants to cry.

"I … see," she whispers and her voice is shaking as badly as Sean. "W-what … what's going to happen now?"

Dr. Barrister looks at her sympathetically and for a brief moment, she wants nothing more than to punch him in the face. "Like I said, Mr. Xavier is stable. He's not out of the woods yet, but if he makes it through the night, then it's uphill from there."

"He'll make it," she says and for the first time all day, she's absolutely certain.

Of course he would make it. He's _Charles. _

The doctor's thin lips flit up in a sad smile. "Hopefully. However, as I said the damage to his leg was extensive. And he refused metal rods, which would have helped with healing the bone fractures and added strength to his leg. As it is, he's facing a long road to recovery and there are strong chances he will never walk normally again. I'm sorry."

She pushes past her horror and pain and sadness. "But he _will _walk, right?"

"That will be up to him," the doctor replies grimly. "And even if he does, it won't be without pain. Again, I'm deeply sorry." He reaches out and pats her shoulder. She barely feels it.

Everything is numb and far away. She longs for Hank's calm presence.

She also longs for Erik, and hates herself a little bit for that.

"Can we see him?" Alex, speaking at last with a voice as rough as sandpaper. So strong and so young all at once.

Dr. Barrister shakes his head. "Not yet. He needs to rest. Tomorrow you should be able to see him. Right now, I suggest you kids go get some rest."

He brushes past them, lab-coat flapping behind him, and through an unmarked door into the recesses of the hospital.

The silence ticks on in his wake for one minutes, two, then: "I'm not leaving the Professor." Sean sounds like he's trying to hard too be brave.

Raven can relate.

"Neither am I," she insists.

Alex sinks down into one of the plastic chairs, crossing his arms. "I'm staying, too."

Raven feels a rush of warm at their devotion to her brother. They are far more loyal to him that her, she must admit. She'd been ready to walk away from him—take Erik's hand and let him lead her into the future.

Now she's glad—_painfully, heart-breakingly glad—_that she chose to stay with her brother.

Charles is going to need her.

Suddenly remembering Hank—trapped a few blocks down in the closest hotel—Raven makes her way to the pay phone in the hall. After getting a few coins from the sympathetic nurse at the registration desk, she dials the hotel and asks for Hank's room.

He picks up on the first ring.

"Hello? Raven? What's going on? Is the Professor okay?"

His barrage of questions throws her off guard and for a moment all she can do is breathe and try to hold herself together.

Hank panics in her silence. "Oh no. He's dead, isn't he? Oh—"

"No!" She cuts in, quivering from the shock of hearing _that _word. She'd thought it, when the doctor first came out of surgery, but hearing it aloud gives it power she doesn't want it to have. "No, Hank. He's not dead."

Static crackles in her ear as Hank lets out a long sigh of relief.

"Thank God. H-how … how is he?"

Tears are clogging up in her throat. "N-not good, Hank." She can feel herself beginning to fall apart because _Erik _and _Charles _and all the blood and the pain and it wasn't supposed to end like this. "He … he's going to be in pain for the rest of his life, Hank."

Hank sucks in a sharp breath. "Raven…"

"The rest of his life!" She yells into the phone, and she's not sure if she's screaming at Hank or Erik or Charles or herself or the world in general with all of it's cruel _humanity. _"The _rest of his life_! He's _twenty-six-years old_, Hank. Do you have any idea how long that's going to be?"

"Raven…"

She wants to hate Erik for it, but she _can't _and she's being pulled in so many directions and it's all too much. She sinks to the floor with her hands over her face. Hank's voice yells at her from the dangling telephone—tinny and frantic and distant.

She weeps.

* * *

><p>The next day passes in a blur of colors and sounds. Sometime during it, she showers and changes at the hotel, conjuring a new set of clothes out of one of the magazines she sees in the lobby.<p>

Hank hugs her at one point—bone-crushing and warm—and Alex squeezes her shoulder and Sean loops his arm through hers and tries to smile at her, but none of them can find any words to say.

She drinks hospital coffee by the bucketful, even though she prefers tea, and eats bland hospital food, even though she can barely keep it down. She sits in uncomfortable chairs and stares at colorless walls and pesters passing nurses until they start speeding up when they pass the strange group huddled in the waiting room—careful not to look at any of them.

At last, she finds herself at Charles's bedside.

Her first thought is that he blends in far too well with the white sheets. Her second is that he's _too still. _Her brother has always been in motion, even if it was little more than a faint, restless tapping of his fingers. Right now, he looks too much like a corpse.

Shuddering, she leans forward and takes his limp hand in her own. Even his skin is cold—like marble, like metal, and that thought prompts another shiver.

"Charles…" she whispers around the tears clogging her throat. So much for crying them all out in the hallway.

For a moment, all she can do is grip his hand and watch his chest rise and fall steadily, reassuring herself that he's still alive. "I don't know if you can here me," she continues. "But you're going to be okay."

His bangs are falling in his eyes, and she brushes them back with a tender hand, letting her fingertips linger on his wan cheek. She'd thought she would be fine without him, but looking at him now, slipping beyond her reach, she realizes how wrong she was.

_"Please, _be okay." Her voice breaks and she feels like a little girl again, running to him for protection.

"I'm sorry." The last time she spoke with him, they'd fought. The idea that an insult might be the last thing she ever says to him feels like being punched in the stomach. "I need you to be okay."

He doesn't respond—not even with a flutter of his eyelashes or a twitch of his fingers. Just remains still and cold.

Fading, _dying, _dead.

She buries her face in his chest and listens to the faint rhythm of his heartbeat.

_Hang on hang on hang on._

* * *

><p>When she steps out into the hallway, hurriedly wiping the last remnants of tears from her cheeks, Agent Moira McTaggert is waiting for her with a solemn expression.<p>

Feeling dread begin to creep down her spine, Raven stops and lets her hand drop to her side. "Agent McTaggert." She tries to keep her voice polite, but she hardly wants to have this conversation.

Moira McTaggert is mixed up in the mess of people she blames for Charles's condition.

"Raven," Moira echoes her polite tone, but there's an edge to her voice Raven doesn't like. "I need to speak with you. It's urgent."

"What's going on?" Raven wants to scream in frustration. The last thing she needs is more bad news.

Moira beckons her into a small side alcove, near the water fountains and the telephone she'd used to scream at Hank yesterday. In the harsh hospital lights, the CIA agent looks like a ghost—drawn and pale with dark circles under her eyes and thick wrinkles in her suit. Raven imagines she looks no better. For a long moment, the two women regard each other wearily, and Raven begins to suspect that Moira is dreading this conversation almost as much as she is.

At last, the agent begins with a quiet sigh. "I've been meeting with superiors constantly over the past twenty-four hours, trying to get clearance to have Charles moved to a facility closer to home."

Raven nods, feeling a little of her anger at the woman cease. Trying to shoot Erik or not, Moira's love for Charles is impossible to deny. It makes her sad, because she's pretty sure Charles returns at least some of that love, and it will never amount to anything. Moira's eyes say it loud and clear as she continues.

"They denied my request. They … they want Charles and all of you moved to a secure facility as soon as Charles wakes up. For … monitoring."

Raven closes her eyes and doesn't feel any of the shock she was expecting. Erik was right, after all. Even after they'd saved America from the horrors of nuclear war, the humans tried to kill them and now wanted to lock them away like criminals.

She is certain that if they went with the CIA, they would never see the light of day again.

"So they want to imprison us," she says, and was a little proud of how much steel coated her voice.

Moira winces but nods sadly.

"That's not going to happen," Raven continues, feeling her determination grow.

"I know," Moira agrees. "As soon as Charles wakes up, you need to get him out of here. Take him to a secure location. And," she pauses, looking heartbroken, before raising her chin—a determined set to her jaw, "Charles needs to wipe everyone's memory in this hospital. Even mine. That way, we can't give you away."

Charles isn't going to like that, not at all, but Raven can see the necessity of it. Erik was right and they were at war, whether her brother wanted to accept it or not.

"I'll make sure that happens," she assures Moira.

The CIA agent nods again, before hesitating, casting a lingering glance at the door to Charles's hospital room. "I'd … like to say good-bye, if you don't mind."

"Of course." She owes them this, because her brother doesn't love easily—in spite of what others think—and he's weathered so much heartbreak in the past few days it's a miracle he's still breathing.

She just wishes he could be awake to hold Moira one last time, but maybe it's for the best that he isn't.

Moira takes a deep breath and slips into Charles's room. Through the crack in the door, Raven watches as the brunette hurries to Charles's side, and reaching out a trembling hand, runs her fingers through his hair—a tired, wistful expression on her face.

Raven decides to give them some privacy and goes in search of Alex and Sean. They need to start planning.

She finds them in the cafeteria, staring at their trays of food without touching anything. They look up when she approaches—concern and impatience warring across their features. She takes the empty seat at the table and runs her fingers through her hair, grimacing at the tangles. Her natural hair is so much easier to take care of, but that form is currently out of the question.

"Well?" Sean asks, unable to leave the silence alone. "How's the Professor?"

"He's stable," she answers and braces herself.

She isn't used to being the strong one, the leader. It isn't comfortable and she wishes desperately for Charles, for Erik, for anyone to come along and tell her what to do, how to handle this. But there is no one and Sean and Alex are looking at her with big, questioning eyes.

"I have some bad news. As soon as Charles wakes up, the CIA wants to move us to a secure facility, for 'monitoring.'" She uses air quotes on the last word as Alex and Sean tense up.

"So basically they want to cart us off to some CIA prison," Alex says darkly, curling his hand into a fist against the table.

"Yes. Basically." Raven hopes he won't punch anything. He caused enough of a scene with the doctor and the wall.

"Why am I not surprised?" Sean grumbles and his voice is full of bitter sarcasm that doesn't belong there.

They've all grown up, it seems.

"Moira suggested that as soon as Charles wakes up, we try to move him to a different location and have him wipe everyone's mind at this hospital. Including hers."

"The Professor isn't going to like that," Sean says with a shake of his head.

"Well he'll have to get over it," Raven snaps. "We've got no other choice."

Alex and Sean look taken aback at her outburst, but she doesn't feel like apologizing. She wants to tell them that they're at war now, and they have to start thinking like it, but she doubts they would appreciate having Erik's ideals shoved down their throats a second time. Besides, they need to work together if they're going to survive, and Erik is _gone, _so she bites her tongue.

"Right. We understand, Raven. We're not five," Alex snaps back after a long moment—settling from shock into anger.

"Hey," Sean cuts in as Raven mounts another verbal attack. "Knock it off, guys. We don't have time to fight."

When _Sean _starts being the voice of reason, Raven knows it's time to quit. "Sorry," she mutters without looking at Alex.

Alex doesn't offer an apology of his own, but Raven forces herself to let it go. "We need a plan," she says instead, focusing on Sean.

"We should go back to New York," Alex suggests, finally relaxing his fist. "Head to the mansion. It's probably the safest place to take the Professor. The CIA doesn't know about it, right?"

Raven nods. "Charles didn't tell anyone but Moira."

"But how are we going to get him all the way up to New York?" Sean ask dubiously.

They sit in silence, stumped by the question. It's a long way from Florida to upstate New York, and flying is out of the question. They would have to drive, which could take _days. _None of them knew the first thing about medical care and so Charles dying in route if they attempted that was probably a distinct possibility.

"We can't drive him…" Raven begins to protest, knowing the others have reached the same conclusion.

"We have to," Alex interrupts grimly. "It's the only way."

"Great." Sean drops his head into his hands. "We're going to kill the Professor."

Raven regards him with a frown as an idea beings to form in her head. "No. Let's all talk to the nurses, see if we can find out as much as possible about treating injuries like Charles's. That way, we'll know how to take care of him en route to New York."

Alex sighs, massaging his temple wearily, but there is assent in his gaze. "Okay. The nurses around here just think we're a bunch of lost kids. It shouldn't be too hard to get some information out of them. We can just sick Sean and his puppy dog face on them." He nudges Sean with his elbow, trying for levity.

Sean lifts his head enough to glare—an offended "Hey!" slipping out—but there is a hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth. Raven feels her own lips lifting slightly, for the first time in days, and suddenly she isn't mad at Alex anymore.

"We should call Beast about getting us a car," she adds.

"Can he do that without being seen?" Now it's Alex's turn to frown uncertainly.

"I'm sure he'll find a way." Hank might be meek and tender-hearted, but Raven knows he'll come through. He has a tough streak in him that came out clearly on the beach.

Besides, he would probably jump at the chance to be useful. He'd been practically pulling his fur out in restless frustration the last time she called him.

"Great," Alex says without much enthusiasm. "I'll go call the bozo." He gets up and dumps his still-full tray into the nearest dumpster before retreating to the elevator.

"I'm going to go back to Charles," Raven stands, as well, and Sean lets out a frustrated sigh.

"I guess that means I'm stuck getting info from the nurses."

Raven smiles, reaching over to pat his head with mock patronization. "Like Alex said, just think puppy dog and you'll be fine." He pulls his head away with a dark scowl, but his eyes tell her he doesn't mind the teasing. It's a distraction, a relief.

She leaves before the light atmosphere they've managed to create can fade away into suffocating silence.

* * *

><p>Five hours later, Charles finally wakes up.<p>

Raven, dozing with her head pillowed on the bed, feels him start to stir—his hand moving to brush against her hair as a soft moan slips past his lips. She jackknifes upright, dislodging his hand, and when she trails her gaze up to his face, foggy blue eyes lock on hers.

"Raven…" her brother murmurs in a voice hoarse with disuse.

She isn't sure if she wants to laugh or cry. Instead, she reaches for Charles's hand and squeezes it tightly—thrilled when he responds with a light squeeze of his own. "Welcome back."

"Where…?" he croaks, looking around in sleepy confusion.

"A hospital in Florida. You convinced the men on the ships to take us here. Do you remember?"

He blinks sluggishly, but memory is sparking in his gaze. "Vaguely."

He shifts a little in the bed, untangling his hand from hers so he can place both palms flat against the mattress in an effort to lever himself into a sitting position. He only manages a few inches before he collapses back against the pillows with a pained gasp. Raven leans over him swiftly, placing a gentle hand on his chest to discourage him from trying again.

"Not so soon, you idiot."

She expects him to ask about his condition, about the others, about _Erik, _but he just looks at her with a pinched, searching expression. "What's the matter?"

"I thought you said you were never going to read my mind," she counters because she isn't ready for this yet. She wants a few minutes of peace with her brother before she has to bring the world down on their heads yet again.

"I'm not." He sounds frustrated, blue eyes flashing. "You're projecting all over the place, Raven. What's troubling you? Is it the others? Is everyone alright?" He tries to sit up again, ignoring her hand on his chest.

She pushes him back down with a private, rueful smile. Her brother could really be a stubborn fool when he wanted to be. "No. Everyone's alright."

She hesitates, looking up at him—taking in his wide eyes, the sheen of sweat on his too-pale skin, the emotions flickering across his face. Signs of life—all of them. And it's still too easy to remember the blood and how she had felt him slipping away in her arms—the brief seconds where she had to face down the idea of life without him.

A wall of relief hits her in that moment as it finally sinks in that her brother is _alive, _and somewhere down the road, he's going to be okay. Carefully of his injured leg, Raven crawls onto the bed next to him and wraps him up in her arms.

"R-Raven…?" He stutters out, shocked. Most likely by her tears that are soaking down his neck and into his hospital gown than by the fact she's hugging him. They've always been affectionate with each other, but they've rarely cried, reserving that release for a private setting.

"Shut up," Raven hiccups and presses in closer. She's probably smothering him, but she can't bring herself to care.

He obliges her for once, lifting a weak hand to tangle in her blond hair. Once she'd soaked through a decent amount of his flimsy hospital gown, she pulls back with a tired sniffle and smiles at him through tear-blurred eyes. "I'm so glad you're okay, Charles."

His expression has softened and there's warm affection in his eyes—the kind he used to shower on her constantly, before the CIA and Cuba and "Mutant and Proud." "And I'm glad you're here, Raven. I thought…" he trails off, but she _knows. _

_I thought you were going with Erik. _

"I would never leave you, especially dying of blood loss," she hisses, glaring down at him. "What kind of person do you take me for?"

He winces, reaching out again to soothe her. "I'm sorry." She laces her fingers through his again, stopping him from wiping the tears off her face, and lets out a long sigh. She's not angry with him, not really.

If she were to be brutally honest, she would have to admit that she's angriest at herself, because even now there's a part of her that wishes she'd taken Erik's hand.

"It's okay," she murmurs, attempting a smile.

"No," he presses and he's tugging at her sweater weakly, urging her back down to rest against his chest. She complies carefully—not wanting to cause him any unnecessary pain. "No, I'm sorry for everything, for not—"

"It's okay," she repeats, cutting him off. She doesn't want to talk about this right now, because that will mean talking about _Erik, _and neither of them are ready for that yet.

She can sense his distress and hurries to reassure him. "We'll talk about it later, Charles. Right now, we've got bigger things to worry about."

He shifts a little beneath and another soft gasp of pain escapes him. "Oh…" he mutters in shock, and she realizes that the painkillers are probably starting to wear off.

"I should get a nurse." She sits up quickly, watching as his teeth sink into his lower lip and he stares down at his legs with a stunned eyes. They're covered by blankets, but she knows that if he were to move them aside, he would find blood-stained bandages.

Fortunately, he doesn't.

"No," he whispers with a grimace, focusing back on her. "I'm fine. Tell me … what's bothering you."

She wants to call a nurse to put him back under, tell everyone he never woke up, buy them just a little more time, but that won't work. The nurse would tell the CIA officials who have been hovering on and off around the hospital for the past few hours and they would all be taken away to live the rest of their lives as government lab rats. No, they're out of time, whether they like it or not.

"Raven," Charles presses and she can hear the frustration seeping into his voice, mixed with worry.

"The CIA is waiting, Charles," she blurts out, refusing to meet his eyes. "They want to take you away. To take all of us away and lock us up somewhere. For good."

_Erik was right, _she thinks and buries it just as quickly.

She hears Charles's sharp intake of breath and when she finally forces her eyes back to his face, she can see the pain and shock there, and the resignation.

"I see." His voice is tired and dead, and she can't help but think that she's lost a part of her brother forever. "What's the plan?'

"Hank has a car. We're going to New York, back home to Westchester. We'll get you a live-in nurse. We just need you to make sure no one in the hospital remembers us or knows where we're going."

Charles rubs his forehead wearily, but his sigh is full of bitter acceptance. "Alright." He doesn't question about his condition, about how they're going to take care of him on a twenty-four hour drive up the coast. She wonders, with a hint of worry, if he even cares. "I'd like to speak with Moira, please."

Moira, who had met her in the hallway after an hour at Charles's side, wiping tears from her eyes, and made her promise to look after her brother.

"She already said good-bye, Charles," Raven whispers sadly.

Charles's gaze is defiant. "But I haven't. I can sense her. She's still here, so please send her in." His voice leaves no room for argument and she wishes he wouldn't do this to himself—chip away further at his already cracked and damaged heart.

But she's never been good at winning arguments with him. "Since you're insisting on torturing yourself, fine."

She leaves in a huff to find Moira and convince her to come break her heart further by saying good-bye to Charles Xavier a second time.

* * *

><p>Moira takes a deep breath as she stands outside of Charles's hospital room. When Raven had marched up to her in the reception area, informing her that Charles was awake and wanted to speak to her, her first instinct had been to decline and run away.<p>

But her foolish heart demanded that she take the time to say good-bye properly, to lay all her hopes and fears and dreams involving Charles Xavier to rest. She'd forget them soon, anyway.

Charles has managed to sit up when she pushes her way into the room and he greets her with a half-hearted smile. He looks terrible—hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes, skin pale, and features pinched with pain and exhaustion—but she doesn't care.

She stops by his bedside, throwing her shoulders back and trying her best to exude professionalism. It might make this whole affair less painful for both of them. "Charles, it's good to see you're awake."

Instead of replying, he reaches out, snagging the edge of her sleeve, and pulls her to him. As soon as she feels his arms around her—weak and shaking but solid—her walls crumble away and Agent McTaggert disappears, leaving behind Moira, who is in love with Charles Xavier and doesn't quite know how to let him go.

"I'm sorry, Moira," he whispers into her hair, and she isn't sure what he's apologizing for—wiping her memory, getting her into this mess, caring for her in the first place—but it doesn't matter because he has nothing to be sorry for.

He laughs quietly when she tells him as much. "I just wish…" he cuts himself off and this time she does understand.

"I love you," she murmurs, feeling tears beginning to mount again.

This time his laugh sounds more like a broken sob and then he's kissing her—hot and sad and desperate. Her fingers tangle in his hair and she kisses back with everything she has. It's full of what ifs and could have beens and good-bye. She's glad, in that moment, that she won't remember this—the pain that's cutting her to ribbons inside.

She doesn't know how Charles will be able to carry it with him.

They pull apart only when the need for air overtakes their desire to be close. She still clings to him and he buries his face in her neck, panting softly. Tears are slipping down her cheeks and everything has gone to Hell so quickly she doesn't know how to keep up.

"Moira, I lo—"

"Don't say it," she begs, stroking his hair. "Don't say it, Charles. I won't remember this. You will. Don't cause yourself more pain."

He chokes on another sob, but she can feel him nod against her skin. He pulls back for one more kiss—this time lingering and full of heartache. When they separate, she peers into his sad blue eyes through her own tears.

"Good-bye, Moira," he whispers as his fingers drift towards his temple.

She smiles at him, trying to pour as much love and reassurance as she can into the tattered gesture.

Then, the world goes dark, and he's gone.

* * *

><p><strong>IMPORTANT NOTE: The next chapter will most likely not be up for three weeks or so. Sorry about the delay. I'm traveling starting tomorrow and internet accessbility will be sporadic at best. Just hang tight, dear readers, and thank you for your patience.<br>**


	2. On the Run

**Finally, here it is! The next chapter of Last Train. **

**I'm terribly sorry for the long wait, folks. I came back from holiday with a dreadful cold, and then, on top of that, I opened up Word to discover that I had somehow lost four pages of what I had written. Now, I don't know about any of you, but when I lose that much work, I find it very hard to go back and rewrite it, so this stalled things even further. **

**But, never fear, your kind words and encouragement helped me prevail! Thank you all so much for your support! **

**By the way, this whole story is not a medical drama. I promise. It just kind of feels like that right now. ;) Again, hopefully everything is accurate. **

**Also, I wrote a one-shot that ties in with this story, _From Here You Can Almost See the Sea. _It's a long, beast of a thing, but hopefully it will make up for the lack of Erik in this first few chapters. :) **

**I'm done now. Read on. **

* * *

><p>Raven jerks in surprise as the entire cafeteria freezes around her. Sean stands up so fast, his tray clatters to the floor, and Alex's lips part in unabashed awe.<p>

"_Hurry," _Charles's voice whispers through their minds. "_I can't keep this up for long." _

Sean turns quickly, darting toward the double doors of the cafeteria. "I'm going to go get bandages and medicine and stuff!" He calls over his shoulder before breaking into a sprint.

"Find a wheelchair," Raven orders Alex as they jog toward the other set of doors, heading for the elevators. "I'll meet you in Charles' room."

Alex nods and moves for the nurse's station, dodging around frozen bodies. The entire hospital appears to be frozen, and Raven takes a moment to marvel at the extent of her brother's power. If Charles wanted, he could be unstoppable, she's sure.

But he doesn't and she's starting to learn that that may be one of his best qualities.

The elevator reaches Charles' floor, pulling her out of her thoughts and she taps her foot impatiently as the doors open. She ducks under the outstretched arm of a man preparing to push the call button and weaves her way down the hall until she reaches her brother's room.

Charles is sitting up in bed with two pale fingers pressed to his temple. There are dried tears staining his cheeks and in front of him is the still form of Moira MacTaggert—her features frozen in a gentle smile.

Raven feels something crack in her chest at the sight. She wants to hug her brother, who's giving up so much and shattering slowly because of it, but there is no time. They never have enough time.

"Alex will be here any minute with a wheelchair," she tells him, struggling to keep her voice even.

Charles nods absently and she knows most of his mind is elsewhere, wrapped up in the consciousnesses of the hospital staff, CIA agents, and patients. She does not distract him further—tries to stand as still as possible and keep her eyes away from Moira's face or the heartbreak in Charles's gaze.

The door opens suddenly, and Alex rushes through, pushing a wheelchair. "Sean's outside in the car with Hank," he whispers to her, shooting a tired, sympathetic look at Charles.

"Good," she murmurs back, moving to the bed. "I don't know how long Charles can keep this up."

"Not very long," Charles grits out, startling her. "So hurry, please."

Raven and Alex move as one, sliding around Moira to the telepath's bedside. Raven disconnects Charles from all the machines, noting his faint wince when she gently slides the IV out of his skin. Then, taking a deep breath, Alex carefully loops his arm around Charles's waist before sliding the other as gently as possible under the professor's knees. A quiet hiss of pain slips from between Charles' clenched teeth as his injuries are jostled.

"This is going to hurt," Alex mutters solemnly. "I'm sorry." And then he moves, picking Charles up and depositing him in the wheelchair in a jerky series of movements.

Charles gasps, an agony laced sound, and his control slips. Raven watches with quiet horror as Moira blinks once, twice, begins to turn her head…

…and freezes again as Charles desperately presses his fingers back to his temple and regains control. He is shaking and small in the wheelchair, slick with sweat and flushed with pain and exhaustion. Raven wishes there was something, anything she could do, to make this easier.

To make all of this easier.

From the barely hidden pain in Alex's eyes he feels the same way.

But there is nothing, not now, and so she settles for helping Alex maneuver the wheelchair through all the frozen people in the hallway. Charles has his eyes closed and his fingers twitch against his temple as he grits his teeth and hangs on for dear life.

He doesn't look back at Moira, and she thinks that's for the best.

At last, they make it down to the ground floor and through the winding corridors to the service entrance. Hank is in the driver's seat of a beat up old car with a hat pulled down low and sunglasses to hide his inhuman appearance. Raven tamps down her bitterness at the sight, because they _shouldn't _have to hide, and yet…

Charles lets out a small gasp of pain as the wheelchair hits a pothole in the small parking lot, jostling him, and she pushes away everything but here and now and Charles and escape.

Sean is opening the passenger door, and she can see bandages and pill bottles piled up on the faded floorboards, along with a change of clothes. They'd thought of everything, it would seem, and she's proud of them for it.

She climbs through the open door and slides to the other end, twisting so she can grip Charles' shoulders as Sean and Alex carefully maneuver him into the car. It's still a difficult process and Charles nearly screams as his injured leg bumps against the seat. His fingers finally slip from his temple and she knows his controlled has snapped. Thankfully, there's no one in the area to witness the rest of their escape.

At last, Charles is situated with his head in her lap. Hank, who has by far the most medical knowledge of them, forsakes the driver's seat to Alex so he can sit in the back and carefully cradle Charles's legs. For once, she's grateful her brother is on the short side so he doesn't have to bend his legs much to lie prone in the spacious backseat. Charles stares up at her with blurry eyes—watery from pain—and she runs soothing fingers through his damp hair.

"Hang in there, Charles." He doesn't answer—merely closes his eyes and sucks in tired, heaving breaths.

His bandages are bloody and his hospital gown is nearly soaked through. She wonders how on earth they're going to drive him all the way up to New York without killing him.

"He needs some painkillers," Hank advises as they ease out of the parking lot. "They're by your feet."

"Do we have any water?" She asks as bends over, trying to reach the pill bottles without jostling Charles too much.

Sean passes a water bottle back to her, eyeing Charles' bloody bandages with fear-filled eyes. "Here. The nurse said he's supposed to take two painkillers every couple hours. Well, technically that was supposed to happen _after _they got him off the morphine so maybe he needs more?"

"No," Hank asserts quickly. "Let's start with two and see what happens."

She nods, trusting Hank's genius if not his experience, and gives Charles a light tap. "Charles?" His eyes flicker open and it's a struggle for him to focus on her. She ignores the fear that trails cold fingers down her spine. "We need you to sit up a little bit, okay? We have something to help with the pain."

After an agonizing minute, he nods slowly and manages to push himself up on his elbows, lifting his head a few inches off her lap. She quickly pushes the pills into his mouth and raises the water bottle to his lips. Half of it spills down the sides of his face and chin, soaking the front of his hospital gown and the seat, but he manages to swallow and ignores her stuttering apologies as he sinks back down in a boneless heap, eyes slipping closed again.

She exchanges a worried look with Hank.

"We'll make it," Alex mutters determinedly as though he read the terrified thoughts tumbling through her head. His fingers are bleached white across the steering wheel but there's red fire in his eyes—as hot and strong as the lasers he shoots from his chest.

She wishes she could share his confidence, even believe in it, but all she can do is rest her head against the window, knot her fingers in her brother's tangled hair, and wonder if growing up always hurts this much.

Alex presses down on the gas pedal and they wind their way out of Miami much too slowly.

* * *

><p>They stop for gas somewhere in north Florida and Alex trades places with Sean. Charles hasn't woken up since Fort Lauderdale and Raven's thankful for that.<p>

"We'll need to change his bandages soon," Hank murmurs, pushing away the hospital gown to stare at the bloodstained cloth and she tries not to think about everything that will entail.

"Not yet." It might be cowardly of her, but she needs a little more time to build up her walls. She's hurt her brother enough and she's going to hate doing it again.

But she must, because she isn't a little girl anymore, because Erik Lehnsherr helped her grow up and that bittersweet thought knots up in her heart like her fingers still woven through Charles' hair.

* * *

><p>"We can't put it off any longer," Hank insists not too far outside of Savannah.<p>

There's nothing around them but trees, rolling hills, and open highway and she knows here is the perfect place. No one can see Hank here and Charles' blood is beginning to run through the thick layer of bandages to his hospital gown. Logic still can't combat the heavy dread sitting in her bones, weighing her down.

But she still nods. This is for Charles, and she was ready to walk away from him forever. It's the least she can do.

"Okay." She still wishes she could get her inner resolve to translate into her voice, which comes out shaky and afraid.

At least everyone else looks just as scared and out of their depth.

Sean pulls them over into a deserted rest stop. The sun has long since sunk beneath the horizon and overhead an endless expanse of stars gleam. They remind her of the ones she and Charles used to gaze at in Westchester—stretched out in the grass trying to see who could name the most constellations.

Charles always won, but she never minded. Charles had given her so much. She could allow him a few victories.

Now, as she helps Hank and Alex stretch him out on one of the picnic tables, she longs for the quiet cadence of his voice—so intelligent for someone so young—reading off the names of the patterns in the sky. She wants to be young again. Young and carefree and able to curl up against the solid weight of her brother and feel safe in the knowledge that he would always protect her.

"Help me get these bandages off." Hank waves her over and she takes a deep breath, steeling herself.

The bandages are stiff beneath her fingers, and at first she's horrified that they've stuck to Charles' skin. She doesn't want her brother to be in any more pain than he already is.

It seems everyone has developed the ability to read her mind, because Hank gives her a tired, but reassuring smile.

"They're not too bad. Just ease them off."

Nodding, she works in tandem with Hank, carefully peeling back layers of bandages to expose the wound. Despite Hank's reassurances, they have stuck in some places, and she winces as she's forced to tug at them in order to break them loose from skin and crusted fluids.

They're stuck on a particularly stubborn portion—the last layer before skin—when Charles jolts awake with a pained cry. Hank curses and Alex jumps forward to hold him down as he tries to surge up into a sitting position.

"Easy, Professor." Alex sounds far calmer than he looks, but Charles stills under his hands.

Sean hurries to his other side, sitting down on the bench so he's closer to eye level. "Don't panic. We're just changing your bandages."

Charles blinks—eyes beginning to clear—and glances around in bemusement. "W-where…?"

Talk about déjà vu.

"We're at a rest stop," Hank explains, keeping a firm grip on Charles' injured leg. "Like Sean said, we needed to change your bandages."

Raven breathes a sigh of relief when comprehension begins to dawn on Charles face and he lets his head ease back down to the table. "Oh." It's little more than a rush of air, followed by the whispery ghost of a bitter-tinged laugh.

It's a haunting sound and she immediately hates it, because it doesn't belong on her brother's lips.

"I can't say …" Charles continues. "…that this is a situation … I ever thought … I'd find myself in."

"Don't try to talk, Professor." Alex squeezes his shoulder and glances up at Hank, who has turned his attention back to the bandages. "And brace yourself."

Hank, using water to ease the process as much as possible, pulls the last bit of bandage free. Charles' fingers scrabble blindly against the concrete picnic table and his cry of pain echoes in their minds, making them flinch. Sean scoots closer and grasps onto Charles's hand tightly.

"Hang in there, Professor," he soothes through the pain of their headaches.

"Sorry…" Charles gasps out, clinging to Sean's hand.

"It's okay," Alex reassures him, rubbing his temple with a faint grimace.

Raven finally brings herself to look down at the wound on her brother's lower thigh, right near his kneecap. It's ugly and red, oozing fluid and little bit of blood around the thick black stitches knitting together the torn skin. The doctor was right. There really was a lot of tearing, and in that at least, she can be furious at Erik.

She chokes on the thought and looks away quickly, hating her own weakness.

Remarkably, Hank is still calm, unscrewing the cap of a bottle of antiseptic. It makes her wonder if he's ever had some kind of emergency training. "I'm going to pour some antiseptic on the wound, and then some antibiotic cream. With conditions as they are, infection is a high risk. We want to be as careful as possible." She's not sure who he's saying it to, Charles or them, but his confident tone is reassuring nevertheless.

Charles merely turns his head to the side and she can see him gathering himself up, walling in his powers so he doesn't hurt them when Hank begins to pour the stinging liquid onto the wound. He still arches a bit off the table, a breathless cry escaping him. Knowing she can't be of any help down by Hank, Raven rushes to the head of the table, pushing an uncertain Alex out of the way.

"Come help me hold his legs steady," Hank barks at Alex, who hurries to his side as Raven kneels down next to Charles, running soothing fingers through his hair and trying not to cry.

"It's gonna be okay." She's not sure who she's trying to assure more, herself or him. "We're gonna get through this."

He tries to smile at her, but it's trembling and pain-laced and fades into a grimace when Hank pours a little more antiseptic onto the wound.

"Almost done, Professor." His voice sounds strained, but still strong. "I promise."

Hank pats the wound dry and then begins to rub antibiotic cream over it. Then, with Alex's help, they get Charles on side to carefully clean the entry wound in the back of his thigh.

Hank frowns. "We should get a brace for the knee. Keep it straighter."

"And where are we going to find that?" Alex snaps.

Sean suddenly perks up, letting go of Charles's hand. "The nurses said something about that! I think I might have grabbed some splints. Hang on!" He takes off running for the car as Alex shouts after him.

"Why didn't you mention that before, idiot?"

Raven laughs in bitter disbelief and once again wonders how they're going to keep Charles alive until they get to Westchester. From the uncertainty in Charles' own gaze, he's wondering the same thing.

"Sorry, Professor," Hank grumbles as Alex shakes his head in silent frustration. Together, they begin to wind bandages around the wound carefully.

Hank is sealing them off when Sean comes back, clutching a complicated looking contraption. It takes the three boys a few precious minutes to sort it out before they manage to gently slot it over Charles' leg, locking his knee in place.

Charles heaves a tired breath, turning his face further into Raven's palm. "We'll get you some more painkillers," she tells him, stroking his sweaty forehead. He nods once without opening his eyes.

"I'll get them," Sean offers, rising again.

"Get the spare change of clothes, too," Hank orders. "This hospital gown is too cold for him."

Sean waves in acknowledgment and breaks into a sprint. He returns much faster than before with arms full of pill bottles, water, and clothes, which he shoves in a jumbled mess into Hank's arms. Hank glares at him, but Sean has already taken a seat back by Charles' side—and his worry is a palpable thing. Raven can almost feel it hovering in the air.

It shocks her, sometimes, how much her brother has come to mean to these boys.

Hank passes the sweatpants and loose shirt to Alex before leaning over the table. "Professor? Charles?" Charles' eyes blink open slowly and he turns his head to focus on Hank, though he doesn't offer any verbal confirmation. "We're going to help you sit up, okay? We need to get the hospital gown off."

Charles sighs softly, but nods, and slides his arms up so he can press his palms to the cold concrete table, much as he did the hospital bed. Raven springs into action, sliding an arm under his shoulders. She can feel Sean do the same from the other side, and together they lever Charles up into a sitting position.

"I can't say … I'm going to miss the … gown," Charles mutters with a light shiver as Raven begins untying the strings in the back.

Sean chuckles, but it's a nervous sound. "I don't blame you, Professor."

Raven finally gets the last of the ties undone and the gown slips from Charles's shoulders to pool at his waist. Normally, she would be a little embarrassed to see her brother in nothing more than his underwear, but right now the severity of the situation pushes all those feelings aside. Charles starts trembling from the cold almost immediately, even as Sean does his best to shield him with his body. Hank tosses Raven the sweatshirt quickly and after a bit of creative maneuvering, she manages to wrestle it into place. Charles sighs with relief.

"Much … better. But, Hank, if you don't mind … I'd like painkillers before we try … the pants."

Hank nods in sympathetic understanding. "Of course, Professor."

Charles takes two of the pills and washes them down with a large gulp of water. Then comes the agonizing process of getting the sweatpants on. It happens in a series of starts and stops and angry commands bouncing back and forth between the four of them while Charles bears it with his usual, supernatural patience.

At last, at last, it's over and Charles is slipping back into unconsciousness as they carry him toward the car.

Raven situates herself with his head on her lap again, runs her fingers through his hair for the thousandth time, and tries to remember to breathe.

* * *

><p>North Carolina spreads out around in them in endless, rolling hills, when Charles develops a fever.<p>

They've been driving for hours, though it feels like days, like years. Raven feels his forehead, hot beneath the pads of her fingers, and looks up at Hank with terrified eyes.

"Infection," Hank says grimly.

Alex presses the gas pedal to the floor while Sean begins to pray.

* * *

><p>"Raven…" Charles croaks outside of Newark, and she blinks down into foggy blue eyes.<p>

She's losing him again, she can feel it—like his life is trickling away beneath her hands. When they checked the wound, they saw that it had indeed become streaked with angry red and was starting to leak pus. Sean had promptly thrown up in a trashcan while Hank merely said that they needed to hurry.

Now, they're speeding down the freeway at close to eighty miles an hour. She just hopes they don't run into any police. That would Bad with a capital B.

"Raven…" Charles whispers again and she murmurs soothing words to him as she sweeps his hair off his forehead. They've been giving him painkillers every few hours, but she has a sinking feeling they're not helping much—not with the bumpy roads and uncomfortable position stretched across the back seat of a car.

"We're almost there, Charles. Just go back to sleep."

One more hour. They only have to hold on for one more hour. Then, they can put him to bed and call a nurse.

Charles is shaking his head. "Erik broke Emma Frost out of prison," he whispers with a bitter smile and she feels like she's been sucker-punched.

"What?" She gasps while Sean and Hank turn to her with curious expressions.

"Who's Emma Frost?" Sean asks around a mouthful of hamburger—courtesy of the McDonald's drive-thru they'd blown through a few miles back, both for food and to switch drivers in the fastest two person Chinese fire drill she's ever seen.

"Shhh," she hisses at him, turning back to Charles.

His control is slipping further and further the higher the fever climbs and she can feel him now, a low buzzing in the back of her head that both hurts and comforts.

"When was this, Charles?" she asks and hates the anticipation she feels—the thrill of getting information on Erik.

From the dark frown Charles levels at her, he can sense her excitement. "Just now. Ten minutes ago, actually. She went with him."

"Can you sense him?"

He laughs and it's a bitter, dark sound that shocks them all. "No. He's still wearing that _bloody _helmet." His voice is dark, too—tinged with anger and pain, maybe even the beginnings of hatred.

Raven can't really begrudge him that, but it scares her nevertheless.

"Just…" Hank's voice shakes a little and he coughs, starts again. "Just rest now, Professor. We'll deal with this when we get back to Westchester."

Charles is already slipping away again, but not before a single thought tumbles through their heads.

"_So glad I refused that bloody metal." _

Sean pales and Hank's eyes widen. In the driver's seat, Alex curses and red sparks flit briefly along his arms. Raven merely folds herself over her brother and thinks: _why? _

She's not sure who she's asking: Charles, Erik, God, the Universe.

It doesn't really matter. She never gets an answer.

* * *

><p>The rain beats steadily against the window as once again Raven paces—back and forth, back and forth across the hallway floor until she's sure her feet are wearing grooves in the rug.<p>

It's been raining ever since Alex pulled into the driveway of the mansion two hours ago, and the water had been so heavy then he'd nearly driven the car straight into a tree. Getting Charles inside had also been a challenge—solved with all three boys carrying the telepath while Raven shielded them with the biggest umbrellas she could find.

That had all been a flurry of activity—getting Charles to bed, trying to tend to his rising fever, calling a doctor—and enough to distract her. But now, there's nothing to do but wait and it's eating her alive.

Sean, Alex, and Hank all occupy stairs on the staircase, watching her with identical expressions of both worry and distance.

"Are you sure we can trust this guy?" Alex asks suddenly with a pointed look toward the closed door of Charles's bedroom.

"Yes," she snaps as she passes by the staircase. "He's been our family doctor for years. He knows how to be discreet."

"I'm just trying to be sure," Alex snaps back. "You don't have to jump down my throat."

"Knock it off," Hank tears his eyes away from the light switch he's been fixated on for the past hour to glare at Alex.

Alex glares back but quiets, wrapping his arms around his knees. If Raven were to look closely enough, she's sure she'd see red sparks of energy dancing across his skin. Sean doesn't acknowledge any of them. His attention is far away, lost somewhere in his own head. It's strange, seeing him so still, but before Raven can ask if he's alright, the door to Charles' bedroom opens and the elderly doctor slips through, closing it quietly behind him.

Hank immediately retreats up the stairs, vanishing to the second floor. Explaining Charles' injury is one thing, explaining a blue talking beast is another they'd rather not deal with on top of everything else. Alex stands and Sean clicks back into himself, blinking and turning his head toward the doctor.

"Well?" Raven demands, hurrying over to the doctor.

The man pushes his glasses up on his nose, looking tired and worn down. Raven feels a little guilt over waking him up at three in the morning, but not much. Charles' health is far more important than sleep at this point.

"His injury is very serious, I'm afraid. There was a lot of nerve, muscle, and bone damage, though it does look like some of that was tended to. He really should be in a hospital, though." He gives Raven a pointed look, but she merely crosses her arms and returns the heavy stare. After a brief moment, the doctor surrenders with a sharp sigh. "At any rate, I've tended to his infection and left instructions by the bed. It isn't a serious one, yet. We caught it early on, so it shouldn't be dangerous." He adjusts his glasses again—a habit, it would seem—and glances up the stairs to Alex and Sean, before turning back to Raven. "Down the road, though, he's going to need psychical therapy, and he'll need to be admitted to a hospital for that. Private psychical therapists are very hard to come by."

Raven exchanges a glance with Alex and Sean. A hospital isn't an option. They know that already. They'll have to find another way, as impossible as it may seem.

One step at a time, Raven tells herself and smiles at the doctor. "Thank you. We'll talk about it and make a decision on where to go from here."

The doctor nods, unhappy but accepting, and shoulders his bag. "Call me if you need anything. I can come by tomorrow and check on him, if you like."

"We'll let you know," Raven assures, fighting the urge to demand he stay until Charles is better. None of them know what they're doing—except maybe Hank—and the idea of being left in charge of Charles' recovery is terrifying.

One step at a time, she repeats. Just one step at a time. Keeping her polite smile in check, she bids the doctor good-bye.

"I'll walk you to your car," Alex says suddenly as the man opens the front door, jogging down the stairs.

"Thank you," the doctor replies with a kind smile and Alex leads him out of the house, shutting the front door behind him tightly.

Hank reappears at the top of the stairs and the three remaining team members exchange grim, worried looks.

"We're doomed," Sean says at last, running a hand through his unruly hair. "Aren't we?"

"No we aren't," Hank insists, patting him on the shoulder as he descends the stairs. "We'll get through this." He looks to Raven, searching for confirmation, but she can't seem to find any to give him.

Instead, she turns and enters Charles' room, sitting down heavily at the edge of his bed. He's sleeping again—still pale and tired, dark circles under his eyes and hair plastered to his forehead.

"If you die on us, Charles," she informs him seriously, voice cracking. "I'll bring you back from the dead somehow and kill you myself."

There's no response, like usual, and she slams her fist into the mattress, venting both frustration and fear. A hand lands heavy on her shoulder, clawed fingers curling gently, anchoring her. When she looks up, she meets Hank's concerned yellow eyes. Sean is at his shoulder, and he reaches out to put a hand on her arm, too—warm and comforting, though his fingers tremble.

"We'll get through this," Hank repeats, a little stronger than before.

The door creaks open again. Alex.

He crosses the room in silence, wraps one arm around Sean's shoulders and one around Hank's while Raven leans back into them.

They stay like that for a long time, holding each other up.


	3. And the World Spins Madly On

**And we have an update! Thanks so much for all your support, dear readers. I'm sorry I've been so terrible about responding individually to your reviews, but please know they mean the world to me. :D  
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**Sidenote: inspiration for this chapter and the title of it come from The Weepies' gorgeous song The World Spins Madly On. I would definitely give it a listen.  
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**That's all. Enjoy the emotional angst as much as possible. **

* * *

><p>The wind howls outside of his window, heralding the coming winter with its lonely cry. He sits in bed and listens to the rattle of the shutters and the creaking of the glass keep time to the rustling leaves and crackling branches. It's a violent symphony, but fitting, and he lets it drown out the emptiness in his head.<p>

His leg hurts—a dull throb that sometimes flares up into seizing agony—but that is nothing compared to the raw, searing wounds scoured across his soul. With a shuddering breath, he closes his eyes for the thousandth time and reaches out across time and space, searching. He brushes over the slumbering minds in the mansion and nearby town, the towering skyscrapers of New York City, the government agents safe in their beds in Washington D.C.—harmless for a few precious hours. Hundreds of thousands of minds, but not the one he is so desperately looking for.

Where _that _should be, there is only vast emptiness—a void that aches like the wounds in his heart.

Retreating back into himself, he buries his face his hands and wonders if it's relief or disappointment he feels. He doesn't know what he would do if he were able to access that mind. He wants to believe that he would wrap it up in warmth and forgiveness, plead for reconciliation.

But the temptation to crush it grows stronger with each passing day—as bleak and bitter as the hatred festering in his soul.

He's never hated anyone before. Not even Kurt Marko, who tore his life apart so long ago, or his mother, who let her love grow cold and wither away to dust.

But alone in a darkened mansion, listening to the lament of the wind and staving off the pain of both broken body and soul, it's terribly easy to hate Erik Lehnsherr.

So terribly, terribly easy.

* * *

><p>"Are you out of your mind?"<p>

Raven turns from the window to face Alex—rising from his spot on the loveseat with clenched fists and incredulous eyes. "What other choice do we have?" She demands, grimly, glancing at Sean and Hank for support.

"She's right," Hank interjects, adjusting his glasses nervously under the weight of Alex's glare. "We can't take him to a hospital."

"But we're not qualified to take care of him," Sean argues, drowning out Alex's frustrated muttering. "We almost killed him on the way up here and that was just one day!"

"Exactly," Alex agrees, pivoting toward Raven again. "He needs professional help. You heard the doctor. Without proper treatment he might never use that leg again."

"I _know that!" _Raven yells, digging her nails into her palms. Her eyes flash yellow and she angrily gives up the illusion, shifting back to her natural form as she stalks across the room.

Alex meets her anger without flinching. "Then why do you want to put his life in danger?" He demands with barely contained fury. "Is it because you don't care anymore? If your brother's dead then you can go running back to _him, _right?"

White hot fury courses through her at the accusation. "You _bastard!" _She raises her fist—fully intent on beating some sense into him—but Hank rushes forward and grabs her before the blow can connect.

"Stop it!" He cries, forcing his way between them. "Fighting isn't going to help anything. Calm down!"

Sean watches from the loveseat with aching weariness. He isn't surprised in the least by the fight. It's been a long time coming. In fact, it's a small miracle they've kept it together this long.

To put it simply, the past few days have been a small taste of Hell, and even the spaciousness of the mansion could not hide the rising tension. He could feel it with every breath he took—heavy and bitter on his tongue, like salt, like blood.

Like metal.

He sighs and rubs his jaw as Hank pushes Raven and Alex further apart, trying to talk them down. This time, they seem to be listening, but what about tomorrow, or the day after that? When they wake up and the Professor is still hurt and silent and Erik is still gone and the tension is winding tighter and tighter, like a trip wire waiting to set off a bomb—spurred on by their fear and grief and desperation.

He doesn't know and this is so far over his head he's pretty sure he's drowning.

Not for the first time, he contemplates leaving. Like all the times before this, the idea fizzles out quickly. He can't go home. Not now. It isn't safe and his parents will never understand. _This_ is home now and these people are his family. He's not about to let them fall apart, and that determination is the only thing that gives him the strength to stand.

Man, he's tired. No one should be this tired at eighteen.

"We need to come up with a solution," he says, raising his voice so he can be heard over the other three's bickering.

His throat hurts, too. That can't be a good thing. He hasn't used his power in days—doesn't know if he _can _with this much emotion tearing through him, without the Professor's steadying presence, in body and in mind.

They stop, though, and turn to face him—almost identical expressions of surprise on their faces. It's hilarious, really, but he doesn't feel like laughing.

"Fighting like a bunch of toddlers isn't going to help anything," he points out, crossing his arms and trying to look stern. From Alex's arched eyebrow, he's failing miserably, but at least he's gotten them to stop trying to kill each other for a few seconds.

Hank, at least, has the decency to look embarrassed. Or maybe that's just because it's one of Hank's default settings. "He's right." He lets go of Alex and takes a step back, adjusting his glasses again.

"I'm sorry," Alex mutters, refusing to meet Raven's eyes. Sean doesn't really blame him. Raven has grown fierce and strong and suddenly she seems leagues ahead of them all—scary, if he's to be honest.

"Me too." Raven's voice is clipped and hardly apologetic, but he doesn't blame her, either. What Alex said was definitely uncalled for.

Even if they've all wondered. Once or twice.

"Okay, maybe we should go over the options again," Hank takes charge again and Sean gladly lets him, sinking back down onto the loveseat. He's never been one to lead and he's so very tired.

"That's easy," Alex says with a touch of bitterness. "We only have three. We can either take Charles to a hospital, spend weeks we don't have looking for someone who's willing to practice in-house physical therapy, or treat him completely on our own and probably end up killing him."

"We can't take him to a hospital," Raven snaps. "It's too dangerous."

"No one who knows we're connected to the whole Cuba mess knows how to find us," Alex fires back and here they go again.

Maybe screaming will get them to knock it off.

"We can't take the risk."

"Keeping him here is a lot more dangerous. Especially because we don't know what the hell we're doing!"

"I have some medical training," Hank announces, raising his hand in a failed attempt to get their attention.

Sean eyes the window, wondering if it will break if he screams for only a second—just enough to get their attention—while Alex turns on Hank. "How _much_ medical training, bozo?"

Hank's golden eyes narrow. "A fair amount." He crosses his arms over his broad chest defensively. "And I am prepared to thoroughly research psychical therapy techniques."

"And who are you going to practice on? Sean?" Alex jerks a hand in his direction and now it's his turn to narrow his eyes in frustration.

"No," Hank snarls back. "But practicing on you might be good."

In desperation, Sean screams. Unfortunately, his emotions have wreaked havoc on his control, so several things happen at once:

Everyone claps their hands over their ears and doubles over in stunned agony.

The mirror over the fireplace falls off the wall and all the vases in the room tip over and break.

The back wall of windows shatters.

Sean blinks at the devastation, realizing for the first time how bad of an idea that was.

"What the hell did you do that for, idiot?" Alex yells once he's recovered. Raven and Hank just gape and Sean wishes the floor would open and swallow him—anything to escape from all this, even for a little while.

"Sorry," he whispers past his aching throat.

He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, and both would be stupidly childish, so he just sinks back down onto the loveseat again and buries his face in his hands with the vague hope he can block out the world—like an ostrich that sticks its head in the sand.

Raven does laugh—loudly and just shy of hysterical—and then it turns to half-sobs and then Hank is wrapping her up in his arms while Alex looks guilty and Sean wishes he could die.

When did things become such a mess?

"Raven's right," Alex murmurs after several long minutes of painful silence. He's looking at the shattered windows with an expression Sean can't understand, but doesn't really like—a mixture of sadness, surrender, and bitterness that sits wrong on his face. "We can't risk it. We have to do this on our own."

Hank is nodding, spewing platitudes and reassurances while Raven sews up her armor again.

Sean lets out his own burst of hysterical laughter, ignoring Hank. They're doomed. He knows it.

They're all too damn young and foolish for this.

* * *

><p>Raven sits by Charles' bedside and reads Shakespeare. She doesn't really like Shakespeare and neither does Charles, but it was the first book she found in the library (and she couldn't stay in there, not with the game of chess still laid out, waiting to be finished, and Erik's coat draped over one of the armchairs—ghosts of everything that's ended) so it will have to do.<p>

She's just starting Sonnet 29 when Charles' voice cuts over hers. "Why are you still here, Raven?" He's not facing her, but his tone is both sad and accusing.

For a moment she remembers broken promises and a thousand misunderstandings, and contemplates hitting him with the book. "You're my brother, Charles," she says firmly, and that isn't an answer, not at all, but it's the best she has.

It's better than the truth. Better than admitting she doesn't know.

Charles doesn't respond, so Raven dives back into the book—desperate for a distraction.

"When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself and curse my fate."

The words echo against something inside her soul and she shuts the book, bowing her head and thinking of broken promises, shattered friendships, bitter good-byes, letting go, and carrying on.

She tries not to think about Erik Lehnsherr and the silence piles up thousands of unspoken things in the chasm that stretches between her and Charles.

* * *

><p>Charles blinks up at Hank—who looks decades older than he did when he walked into the hangar the day the world ended—and wonders if he heard right. Hank's mind is a whirlwind of emotion and calculation, battering against his feeble shields, and he has to clench his teeth against the growing headache.<p>

Everything hurts, these days.

"I'm sorry?" He says, trying to focus. "What did you say?"

"We're going to treat you in the mansion." Hank shifts his weight nervously and his lack of confidence should be a lot more worrying than it is. "No outside medical staff. I'm sorry but it's the only way."

He thinks about arguing, about protesting, about a thousand reasons why this is a terrible idea, but they all seem insignificant. His head hurts and his leg hurts and his soul hurts, and he really just wants to pull the covers over his head and sleep until the world dies away.

"Is it really that dangerous for me to be in a hospital?" He asks when he realizes Hank is still waiting for some kind of response. It seems like an intelligent question—one he would normally ask.

"I don't know," Hank admits, and he appreciates the honesty. All of them treating him like he's made out of glass and will break any minute is getting annoying.

Besides, they needn't bother. He's already broken.

He sighs and rubs his temple again, biting back the urge to tell Hank to _please _stop thinking so _loudly. _His anxiety is like a battering ram.

"But we don't want to take any chances," Hank continues hurriedly.

He should reassure Hank that he's not angry with him, that he appreciates the fine job they've all been doing, but he's too tired to be their leader at the moment. "Will I walk again?" He asks instead, glancing down at his bandaged leg.

Hank's anxiety spikes, slamming into him. He curls away from it, throwing up more meager shields. The scientist's thoughts are too jumbled for him to pick out the answer he needs, so he carefully unclenches his teeth and tries to look calm and patient. "Hank?"

"Sorry," Hank stutters, shifting his weight again. "We … we don't know. You should. But…"

Charles sighs. Another 'should' to add to the list. "Thank you, Hank. When do we begin physical therapy?"

"In another week or two. We need to give you some time to heal."

_And I need time to research. _

Charles ignores the thought that flares across his mind and does his best to smile. Hank's concern over how pale and drawn and _weak _he looks is another battering ram that he wishes would disappear.

"Very well, Hank. Thank you."

Hank nods and hurries from the room, fleeing the tension that seems to permeate the mansion these days. Charles sighs in bitter frustration. He should be better than this, more pulled together. They need a leader, the others, no matter how strong they are, and he's failing miserably at that—too wrapped up in his own pain to properly acknowledge theirs.

With another sigh, he reaches down and carefully rests his hand on his damaged leg. _Should _walk, Hank had said. _Should. _

He can remember the pain of the bullet searing through his flesh, the gritty sand on his tongue as he collapsed, Erik's strong hands grabbing him, trying to help him …

…the agony as Erik tore the bullet from his body.

Tears well before he can stop them—full of pain and bitterness. _Should. _How he hates that word.

Erik _should _have stayed.

He _should _have done more to stop him.

Erik _should _have never wrenched the bullet out of him.

Charles _should _let go of all this.

And Erik … Erik _should _have done so _many_ things. But Erik didn't. Erik didn't and he gets to bear the weight of the consequences to all those horrible decisions.

"I hate you," he tells the empty room with feeling and hopes that Erik never hears him.

* * *

><p>He sinks down into the chair, trembling with exhaustion and agony, but there is a small bit of triumph, too. All the way across the room and back again today, and if that isn't progress, he doesn't know what is.<p>

The others seem much less thrilled.

"You have to stop pushing yourself so hard," Raven snaps as she hovers over the sofa—golden eyes alight with worry.

He frowns up at her, wishing he could get her to understand, wishing she would stop broadcasting so bloody _loudly. _It hurts his head and he doesn't need that pain on top of everything else.

"She's right," Alex agrees before he can argue with her. "You look like death."

Well, that isn't really a surprise. He hasn't slept in days. As soon as he closes his eyes, nightmares rise up to plague him and after the first night, when he woke the whole household by dragging them into his tortured dreams, he decided that it would safer for them all if he avoided sleep. His shields are in tatters—worn down by his tumultuous emotions and theirs—and last night he held a bloody cloth to his nose for two hours and wished he could die, just to make the mental pain stop.

He _feels _like death, but death is silent, and oh how he wishes he could find silence now.

But he's not about to let them know any of that.

"I'm fine," he insists with more strength than he feels and pushes himself up off the sofa. "Let's go again."

"No," Hank replies with surprising authority, pushing him gently back down. "You need to rest, Professor."

"Yeah, we don't want you dying on us," Sean adds and Charles can feel his terror at that possibility—how real he considers it to be.

"I'm fine," he repeats, frustration mounting. They're treating him like glass again. Like they can somehow preserve him. Like he isn't already in a thousand pieces on the floor. "We don't have time for this."

"These things take time," Hank says patiently, and Charles wants desperately to throw a book at his head. "It's only been a month."

Exactly. A month. A month that Erik has had to roam across the countryside, gathering others to his cause. Charles doesn't know that for sure, but he's seen enough, flashes that scour across the already bleeding wounds on his soul. He isn't afraid of what Erik is planning, he's told himself a thousand times. Except that isn't true. On the beach, he stared into an abyss darker than even he had imagined—void of the light he'd glimpsed time and again at the mansion—and this same abyss greets him every time he dares to reach for Erik.

It terrifies him. That abyss has the power to swallow them all, and he has to stop it. Somehow. He has a feeling he's the only one who can.

The silence is hovering again, he realizes with a jolt. It's too easy, these days, to get lost in his own head. "Fine," he murmurs, because he knows when to pick his battles. "I'd like some time alone, please."

They exchange a worried glance over his head and he can't really begrudge them it. He's asked for solitude a lot in the past weeks. It's tragically ironic. Loneliness was one of his greatest pains growing up and now he'd give almost anything to be alone.

"Fine," Hank says at last, deciding for them all. "Call us if you need anything, Professor."

"Of course. Thank you, Hank." He tries to smile again, but it feels more like a grimace.

Alex and Sean pat his shoulders on the way out. He wants to tell them how proud is he of them, how grateful he is for their continued loyalty to him and his cause, but the words are locked somewhere deep inside him. Raven gives him a lingering look, like she's trying to see through him. It's the way she always looks at him now and he hates it.

Hank takes her elbow and gently tugs her out of the room, allowing him to breathe a soft sigh of relief.

He sits for a long moment, reveling in the stillness, even though his head still aches—like someone stretched it too far.

With a shaky breath, he builds his walls up around himself again, shutting out the pulse of pain in his mind and the screaming agony in his leg, and stands. He has to hold on to the armchair for a few minutes as his legs wobble and protest carrying his weight. He grits his teeth and bears the pain. He can do this. He _has _to do this. He doesn't know what's driving him forward so forcefully—if it's fear, or hatred, or sheer stubborn determination—but he's trying not to analyze it too deeply.

Maybe, if he were to be brutally honest, it comes down to simply this: Erik took so much from him, he isn't about to let his once-friend take his legs, too.

That's enough to propel him forward, pushing off the chair and taking a small step with his good leg. The world tilts and blurs when he brings the other leg forward, as well, but he doesn't fall. Clenching his jaw, he takes another step and then another. Each one is agony like he's never known (_like a coin, like a bullet ripping through him, killing him and why, oh why isn't he dead?). _His leg feels like it's on fire, but he presses on, through the pain, through the storm of his emotions (_fear and anger and grief and hatred, and the point between rage and serenity has never been so hard to find). _

Right, left, right, left. Another step, another, another, until…

Halfway across the room, his leg gives out with a flare of fire rushing through his body. He bites his lip to stifle his cry as he collapses to the floor. The rug scrapes roughly against his cheek and the impact rattles him, sending another jolt of agony racing along his nerves.

He lays there for a long moment and just lets himself breathe, waiting for the pain to die down. Only it doesn't. It never will again, and he's a fool to think otherwise. A fool, just like Erik always perceived him to be.

And that's so tragically funny—that he's _still _playing the game by Erik's rules—that he has to laugh.

Rolling over onto his back, his stares at the ceiling and laughs until tears stream down his cheeks and blood drips from his nose. Inside, the storm tears him to ribbons.

Just like Erik said it would.

* * *

><p>A sense of restlessness not entirely her own jolts her from bed. Glancing at the clock on her nightstand, she frowns. Three thirty in the morning, and she knows the mind brushing absently against her own.<p>

Throwing her covers back, she pulls on her robe, and hurries from the warm sanctuary of her own room into the cold hallways of the mansion. She lets the feeling guide her—down the stairs and into the west wing, to the library and all its ghosts.

As she predicted, Charles is there, sitting in one of the armchairs, staring at the unfinished chess game. Through the window, the moon casts silver light on his already too-pale face, and for a moment it's as if he's a ghost, as well. Then he turns his head to her—eyes brilliant and tired in the wan light—and the moment is gone.

But the ache in her chest remains.

"Raven," her brother murmurs and she gets the impression that he would be surprised if he wasn't so tired.

"Hello, Charles," she says, keeping her voice calm and neutral. They've been avoiding each other the past few days. Or rather, _he's _been avoiding _her_. It's frustrating and she wishes she could understand why, but she hasn't had the courage to approach him about it.

"You shouldn't be up," she continues when he remains silent, coming to stand next to him. "And definitely not walking around on your own."

He doesn't look up from the chessboard. "Erik was winning."

She lets her eye flit over the black and white pieces and doesn't acknowledge the significance Charles is looking for in the game. "I don't want to talk about Erik."

"Why not?" There is so much bitterness in Charles' voice and it hurts. "You think about him all the time."

Never mind that. Now she's _angry. _He _promised. _"Breaking a promise once doesn't mean you can break it again, Charles." She struggles to keep her voice even, but the undercurrents of rage are impossible to miss.

"I'm not in your head," Charles snaps back, twisting so that he can glare up at her. "You're broadcasting like a bloody beacon." Her eyes widen in surprise as he looks away again. "I wish you'd stop."

She doesn't know what to say to that. She certainly hadn't _meant _to. In fact, she's been trying desperately _not _to think about Erik and might have beens, but maybe that effort has only been digging her grave.

"Charles … I…"

"Why are you still here, Raven?" He cuts her off. It's the same question he asked her weeks ago and she still doesn't have a proper answer for him.

"You're my brother, Charles."

"That isn't an answer." He rises from the chair, standing on wobbly, damaged legs and she's caught between wanting to gather him in her arms and running away so that she doesn't have to face the brokenness and hostility in eyes that used to hold nothing but love for her.

"What do you want me to say, Charles?" She asks with a touch of desperation. "Huh? You _are _my brother. I love you."

"But that isn't why you stayed." His fingers curl into the back of the chair as he holds himself upright. He looks sick and pale but somehow still imposing. "You stayed because you felt guilty about leaving me to bleed out on the sand."

She wants to slap him for the accusation, and she would if there wasn't so much _truth _in it. "Charles…"

"Well, I'm not dying anymore, Raven." He lifts his chin defiantly and she barely recognizes him. "I'll be fine. So you can go. Fight for the cause you _really_ believe in."

"What has gotten into you?" She hisses—anger steadily building walls around the ache in her heart. "I'm not going to leave you!"

"It's what you wanted, on the beach." He sounds calm, but she can hear the subtle shake in his voice, and he doesn't have the right to pretend like this is all her fault. "It's what you still want."

"Stop reading my mind," she snarls, stepping forward with clenched fists and blazing eyes.

"I'm _not!_" He yells back and for a second everything hovers, furious and shaking, between them. Then, Charles' shoulders slump in defeat and he runs a trembling hand over his forehead. "Please, Raven, don't stay because you feel it's your duty."

He doesn't say, _I couldn't bear it, _but she hears it anyway, amidst all those unspoken things.

"I'm _not,_" she replies firmly and wishes she could be more sure of herself.

The shadows in Charles' eyes tell her that he sees the doubt she's hiding. He reaches out a hand, brushing her scaly cheek gently, and she hates the love she can see creeping back into his eyes. "I care deeply about you, Raven. I only want you to be happy."

There's not a drop of falsehood in his words, and that makes it even more terrible. She can't face this, this unconditional love. Not when she's still so conflicted, when she can't be everything Charles needs her to be.

With a frantic shake of her head, she flees the library, leaving him alone with the ghosts. Pausing at the foot of the stairs, she wipes salty tears from her cheeks and wishes she knew how to stop hurting him.

If she could somehow fix everything, she would do it in a heartbeat. She would stop the bullet, she would force Erik to stay, she would love Charles with every fiber of her being, feel nothing but loyalty and devotion to the man who's given her so much.

But she can't. She's weak and powerless and helpless. All she _can _do is drop her head into her hands to stifle her sobs as, around her, the world spins madly on, catching them all up in the hurricane.

In the library, unbeknownst to her, Charles sinks into the armchair next to the forgotten chessboard and does the same.

* * *

><p><strong>Next update is coming fairly soonish. And should be happier. Hopefully.<br>**


	4. Upward Over the Mountain

**Finally, an update! Sorry for the wait, folks. This chapter got a little away from me (as usual, really) and university started again, which means that my free time dried up like snow in the desert. Anyway, that's irrelevant. I managed an update. A long one, too. So enjoy. **

**Sidenote: for those that are interested (which is probably no one, but hey, whatever) the mood for this chapter (and the title, since I'm so original) was greatly inspired by Upward Over The Mountain by Iron & Wine, and Holocene by Bon Iver. I recommend giving both those gorgeous songs a listen. **

**Oh, I also apologize in advance for my evilness. **

* * *

><p>He doesn't know what started it, but one night—alone on the balcony outside his bedroom watching the wind strip the last of the leaves from the trees—the hurricane inside of him got too strong to contain, and he found himself hurling thoughts out into space, hoping they would touch the right mind.<p>

_I hate you. How could you betray us like this? _

There had been rage, then, shaking his body like the wind shook the trees. It was white and hot and angry, the most visceral thing he's ever felt. It cut into him like a coin, like a bullet, and he wanted to use it to inflict the same kind of pain.

_I __**hate **__you. I'm __**glad**__ you're gone. _

And in that moment, those thoughts had been true.

But only for a moment.

* * *

><p>Gravel crunches beneath his boots and his grip is white-knuckled on the cane Hank fashioned for him.<p>

"You okay there, Prof?" Sean hovers by his side like a red and blue bumblebee—concern written all over his face. It's become a painfully familiar expression.

"For now," he replies with a small smile.

He's learning to be honest with them—to let them see him as the damaged, flawed person he really is. They constantly surprise him with their maturity and strength—the way they've all banded together to take care of him.

They _have _grown up. And that's just another thing he wishes Erik wasn't right about.

Sean nods and takes a step back, hovering from a slightly more comfortable distance. He looks a little ridiculous in his big coat and striped scarf that covers nearly half his face, but it's a comforting sight that Charles wouldn't change for the world. Their breath hangs in small clouds in the chilly winter air and on all sides, the estate lies draped in a fresh coat of snow. Hank hadn't wanted him to venture outside—thinking the ice too dangerous—but Sean had backed him up so here they were.

Sean walks with his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his coat and his gaze alternating between Charles and the ground. He seems nervous in a twitchy kind of way, like he's holding himself back from something, and Charles hardly has to be a telepath to figure out the source.

"You want to ask me something?" He prods gently.

Sean flinches sheepishly, running a hand through his unruly mop of hair. "I keep forgetting you can do that."

He chuckles—and at least laughter is one thing that's getting easier. "Please, Sean, I don't have to read your mind to tell you're on edge."

Sean chuckles, too, arching an eyebrow. "That obvious, huh?"

At Charles' nod, he sighs and plunges his hands into his pockets, kicking at a few loose stones on the driveway. Charles can tell he's screwing up his courage so he holds his silence and focus on navigating the icy path, leaning heavily on the cane and trying not to show it.

At last Sean, straightens his shoulders and blurts, "Is he our enemy now?"

Maybe Charles _should _have read his mind, because the question blindsides him with all the force of a hit to the jaw. He stumbles to a stop, blinking at Sean and trying desperately to regain his balance. He doesn't know how to answer, he realizes with something akin to panic.

It's a question he's been asking himself since the beach and close to a month and a half later he still hasn't reached a definite answer.

"I don't know," he whispers truthfully.

There is blatant sympathy in Sean's eyes that he stubbornly pretends not to notice. "I'm sorry, Prof. We just … we want to be ready."

"We're not at war, Sean," he says and wishes he knew for certain if it was true.

"For now," Sean replies with far too much maturity and sadness and pain. There is fear, too, buried deep underneath it all.

He still sees it, though, because it's a part of his gift (curse) to bear witness to hidden things, and it has him tottering forward, pulling Sean into his arms. Sean hugs him back with all the strength of a bear, burrowing into him as though he can leech the strength he needs just by holding on tight enough. He allows it, even though his leg is screaming and his ribs ache from the vice grip.

Sean has been strong on his own long enough, and grown up or not, he's still only eighteen.

When they part Sean is frantically wiping at his eyes. "Sorry," he hiccups, trying to smile and failing.

Charles reaches up to sling an arm around his shoulders, telling himself it's more for Sean's comfort than his own need for support. "It's quite, alright, Sean. You're allowed breakdowns just as much as the rest of us."

They share a wan smile as Sean wraps an arm around Charles' waist, instinctively picking up on his need for help. Charles projects a wave of gratitude at him and Sean's smile widens a few millimeters, relaxing into an expression the telepath is more familiar with.

As they begin their slow trek back toward the mansion, Sean quietly ventures, "Do you think we're going to be okay, Professor?"

He sounds terribly lost and young, but when Charles glances at him he can see the layers of iron and steel beneath the freckles and uncertain eyes. Sean is made of tougher stuff than he first appears.

"Yes," the telepath says honestly. "I think we are."

Sean's answering smile is several degrees warmer than his last and Charles finds himself throwing a thought out into space.

_You haven't broken us, Erik. I hope you know that. _

He immediately wants to pull the thought back, but it's too late. Tightening his grip on Sean's shoulders, he lets it go. It was a one time thing—hardly going to be become a habit.

And besides, it's not like Erik will hear him.

* * *

><p>The chessboard is coated in dust that rockets into the air as he sits down in front of it. Idly rubbing his leg, he regards the board with calculating eyes. He doesn't look at the empty armchair with Erik's jacket slung over the back like a ghost.<p>

Just the board. Just the game.

Erik was three moves away from winning.

Reaching out a tentative hand, he hovers over the bishop. He can't bring himself to touch it—is being repelled by some kind of invisible magnetic force. By the ghost of Erik.

With a harsh sigh, he pulls his hand back.

_It was your move, anyway, Erik. _

And then, an afterthought: _Stop haunting me. You owe me that, at least._

* * *

><p>"Professor?" He looks up to see Alex standing nervously in the doorway. The young man looks agitated and frustrated, shifting his weight and fisting his hands at his sides.<p>

He sets down the book he'd been attempting to read, wincing as Alex's fear and worry hit him like a slap. He'll probably need to teach the kids to quiet their thoughts soon, but everything is still too raw to consider more training at the moment. "Yes, Alex?"

"It's Hank," Alex says, running an agitated hand through his hair. "I don't know if you've noticed," Charles flinches at the subtle accusation in his tone, "but he's been really withdrawn lately and now we can't get him to come out of his lab. We've tried everything."

Charles is on his feet before Alex finishes his explanation—his own guilt and worry gnawing at him. He _hadn't _noticed Hank pulling away—too preoccupied with the gaping hole Erik left in his life—and what kind of leader must that make him? What must Alex think of him now?

He fights down the urge to check and focuses on presenting a calm mask to Alex. "I'll talk to him, Alex."

Alex's face crumples in subtle relief. "Thanks, Professor."

He smiles at the young man thinly and pats his shoulder as he limps by. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention."

Alex trails after him into the hallway, stuffing his hands in his pockets and looking sheepish. It isn't an expression he wears well and it unsettles something in Charles' chest. "We didn't really want to bother you. Sorry."

_That _stabs like a knife, and Charles suppresses a flinch. Cobbling together another jagged-edged smile, he shakes his head. "I'm glad you came to me, Alex." It comes out in a blend of sadness and sincerity, but Alex sags in tired relief and he thinks that maybe, for once, he's done something right.

The rest of the walk down to Hank's lab passes in silence, but not the painful kind that's permeated the mansion on and off for weeks, and Charles is thankful for that, at least. Alex is back to looking young and uncertain when they stop in front of the door to the lab. Charles ignores him for the moment, and knocks loudly against the old wood.

"Hank?"

Silence, though he can feel the hurricane of Hank's mind inside. With a pained frown, the telepath tries the knob. It refuses to turn in his grip.

"The door's locked," Alex says unnecessarily. Charles doesn't call him on it.

Sighing wearily, he knocks again. "Hank, open the door please."

Silence.

He gives up with a soft sound of frustration, turning back to Alex. "Could you find me some paperclips?"

Alex looks puzzled but doesn't question, merely hurries off in the direction of Charles' study. Charles watches him go through exhausted eyes and lets his forehead drop against the door. Hank's mind tears against his own—a jumbled mess of worry, fear, anger, and determination—and the chaos hurts like everything else does these days. Charles grits his teeth against it, shoring up his mental walls higher than they've ever been before (_he's terrified of the day he runs out of room) _and waiting for the pain to abate.

After a few minutes, it does, but the weariness remains.

_I'm tired, Erik, _he thinks before he can stop himself, sagging further against the door. _I'm so tired. _

The stairs creak, signaling Alex's return, and he straightens quickly—though a part of him wonders why he's bothering with pretenses when his pupils have already seen him at his lowest. The blond places a few paperclips into his palm carefully—questions burning behind his eyes.

"Hold this," Charles extends his cane and Alex takes it dubiously.

"Are you going to pick the lock?" he asks and the shock in his tone is a little grating, if not unsurprising.

"Yes," the telepath replies around the paperclips in his mouth, carefully unwinding one into the shape he needs. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Alex's arched eyebrow, and he would laugh if he could remember how.

Picking locks is hardly a skill someone from his upbringing should know, but then again, he hardly fits the stereotype he so easily projects. Brushing away memories of those painful years—and how many of them there were—he focuses on the door with growing uncertainty. In order to get a good angle on the lock, he'll need to kneel on the floor, and that's no longer possible with his damaged leg.

A few curses rise up unbidden, but he tamps them down before they can escape. No need to shock Alex further.

"Here," Alex says suddenly, taking the paperclips from him and kneeling in one fluid motion.

Charles blinks at him. "You know how to pick locks?" It's a stupid question, he realizes immediately, but it prompts a laugh from Alex—albeit a relatively mirthless one, but Charles will take what he can get.

"I wasn't in prison because I was a good citizen," he replies dryly as he inserts the paperclips into the door and begins to maneuver them with practiced ease. "I actually thought about doing this earlier, but … well, Beast can be a little scary, you know?" He bites his lip in concentration as he shifts the paperclips around. "And I figured you wouldn't want any more property damage to deal with."

Ah, yes, he still has to replace the windows in the ground floor sitting room. Rubbing his temple to combat the returning migraine, Charles shakes his head in agreement. The lock gives way with a resounding click and Alex smiles in grim triumph. Standing, he hands Charles back his cane.

"There you go."

Charles takes the cane with another pale smile. "Thank you, Alex. I'll take it from here."

The blond nods. "Okay. Just …" he gestures to his head. "…you know … if you need anything."

"Of course." Alex spares one last glance at the door before shoving his hands into his pockets and retreating back up the stairs.

Charles takes a deep breath, reinforcing his mental walls, and opens the door, crossing the threshold into the hurricane.

And how accurate an analogy that is, considering the mess Hank's lab is in. Charles blinks around at the scattered equipment and piles of paper in dull shock. The only time he's seen the place in a worse condition than this was the day after Hank took the serum that so drastically altered his appearance. This time, emotion hangs heavy in the air, choking him, and he limps forward cautiously.

"Hank?"

A growl comes from behind a tall stack of paper. "How many times have I told you I don't want to be—" Hank comes into view and freezes when he catches sight of Charles. "P-Professor," he stammers, nervously adjusting his glasses as the anger swiftly bleeds out of him. "How did you get in here?"

"That's irrelevant," Charles says, frowning at how terrible Hank looks. "What's going on in here, Hank?"

Hank balks and shakes his head, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Nothing you need to worry about right now, Professor, I'll let you know when it's done."

Charles' frown deepens at Hanks obvious lie—the spike of anxiety that stabs into his mind is telling enough without the rattled edge to the scientist's voice. Hank's mind is a mess of tangled emotions and Charles tries not to drown beneath them—grasps the shreds of serenity he still has left and holds on with all his might.

He should have noticed this sooner, he thinks with a mental kick.

"Is this about … what happened with the serum?" He ventures carefully.

"What?" Hank actually looks surprised before shaking his head firmly. "No. Don't worry about it, Professor," he says again, but thoughts bleed across Charles' mind, giving him away.

_-have to fix this, fix him, things can't go on like this everything's so broken he's suffered enough have to fix this-_

Charles gasps softly, raising a hand to his temple as he regards Hank with incredulous eyes. "You're … trying to fix me?"

Hank flinches and shuffles his feet guiltily, but nods. "Y-yes." He drops his hands to his sides and his gaze is alight with feverish energy that sends trills of alarm down Charles' spine as their eyes meet. "I know I can come up with something. I just need a little time to get it right and then you should be good as new. You won't be in pain anymore…"

"Hank," Charles chokes out in agonized shock. "You can't do that."

A frown cuts it's way across Hank's earnest face. "Why not? Are you worried about what happened with the serum? Don't be. I'll be more careful this time, I promise. After all, if Raven's cells can slow down aging maybe they can even heal with enough modification…"

"Hank," Charles tries again, feeling desperation seeping into his voice. "Stop."

He wonders brokenly when Hank began this mission, why he never noticed before, and how he can possibly untangle this mess of themselves that they've all made.

He's so tired.

Hank is frowning at him still and he stumbles on. "You can't fix this, Hank," he murmurs gently. His fingers tighten on his cane and his gaze slides away from Hank's, because he's a coward, and exhausted, and it's so much easier to look at the floor. "This is permanent."

"I have to try!" Hank insists, taking a step forward. Charles cringes at the desperation and heartbreak that wash over him with all the subtly of waves crashing onto the shore. "I can't just sit here and be helpless! You're in so much pain and if there's a way to fix it, I have to at least try to find it!"

"Hank, there's nothing you can do," Charles says, clinging to his calm in the middle of Hank's storm. "This isn't the way to heal," he continues, gesturing at the messy lab.

He feels a little like a hypocrite, trying to assuage someone else's grief when he's still so wrapped up in his own, but he's let Hank and the others down long enough.

Hank shakes his head. "I have to try," he repeats—a broken note in his voice. "It's our fault and I have to try and fix it."

"W-what?" Charles stutters, feeling like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. This is a new development that he never saw coming. "Your fault?"

"We just stood there!" Hank roars, an outpouring of pent-up grief and rage, and Charles can't stop his flinch. "We didn't do anything to help you! We all could have stopped him if we tried but we just stood there like idiots and let him destroy you! We let him destroy everything and now…" He trails off with a snarl and a clenched fist.

Charles wants to weep as Hank's pain and his own wind together in his chest. Limping forward, he extends a trembling hand. "Hank…"

Hank twists out of reach, staring at Charles with dark, frustrated eyes. "I hate him," he announces grimly and Charles stutters to a stop. "I hate him and I hate this…" he gestures at Charles, but the telepath understands.

He hates how broken they've become, too.

But he doesn't hate Erik, and that realization is another bucket of ice water over his head.

_I guess I can't hate you even when I try to, my friend. _

"I know," he tells Hank softly, blinking against the tears pricking at his eyes. "I know, Hank. I'm sorry."

"Why?" Hank asks—some of the anger dying back into embers. "It's not your fault."

Charles shakes his head and takes a determined step forward, resting a tentative hand on Hank's furry arm. "It's not yours either." Hank trembles beneath his palm and the emotions swirl like snow in a blizzard. "It's _not _your fault. Any of you. And this isn't the way to fix things. I'm not worried about this healing." He pats his leg and surprises himself with the truth in that statement. "This is what needs to heal," he raises his hand and places it over Hank's heart. "For all of us."

The emotions surge as Hank lets out a wet sob and then Charles finds himself crushed against a warm chest. Hank is crying into his hair, but it is his own tears that surprise him, slipping free and tumbling down his cheeks in a messy torrent.

It's embarrassing and painful, but something shakes loose in his soul and healing doesn't feel so impossible anymore.

_I'm tired, Erik, but I may not be as broken as I thought._

* * *

><p>The cold morning air tries to freeze the oxygen in his lungs as he sucks in a deep breath, clutching his cane tightly and staring down the driveway. Hank would have a fit if he knew what Charles is about to do, but the telepath can't bring himself to care. Hank will never find out, anyway—not when Charles has made sure that he remains in a deep sleep for another few hours.<p>

The driveway stretches out before him, slowly winding its way through the trees and rolling fields to the main road far away. A fresh dusting of snow and frost sits atop the fine gravel and Charles can feel it sucking at his boots, sticking to the worn leather. His les throbs, but he's gotten better at ignoring the pain. It's such a constant now, he's almost forgotten life before it was there.

Taking another steadying breath, he closes his eyes for a moment and casts a thought out into space, toward the mind that is out there somewhere—far away but never forgotten. It's rapidly becoming a habit, talking to Erik in his mind, and he isn't sure what it says for his sanity, but he can't bring himself to stop.

_Well, Erik, let's see how far I can make it. Fancy a bet? _

There isn't an answer, but he never expects one.

Opening his eyes, he lets out the breath he's been holding and drops the cane. His leg protests loudly as he puts his full weight on it, but he grits his teeth and shoves the pain down, locking it away in a corner of his mind—the same place the agonizing memories of the beach dwell.

_I can do this. Just take it slow, right? One step at a time. _

The first step sends fire up his leg and the third nearly whites out his vision, but he keeps going—slowly shuffling down the driveway like a ninety-year-old instead of the twenty-six-year-old, athletic man he really is.

Or maybe it's "used to be?"

Twenty steps and he wants to die, but it's the furthest he's ever walked without his cane and he refuses to give up now.

_I bet I look ridiculous, don't I, Erik? _

Twenty-five steps and his knee gives out for a moment, nearly sending him crashing to the rough gravel. He catches himself on his good leg, shifting his weight so that he stays balanced. His breath is coming in heaving pants and he can feel sweat freezing on his brow.

_Just a little bit further… _

Thirty steps and he finally collapses, landing on his face in the gravel and snow. Spitting dirt out of his mouth, he rolls over onto his back and blinks up at the charcoal gray sky.

Thirty steps. It's a start.

* * *

><p>The door to Raven's room swings open on the third knock and he tries to stifle his nervousness.<p>

"Charles?" she says in confusion, because they've still been avoiding each other, suffocated by the unspoken things piled between them.

He's hoping desperately this will clear some of the air. "I need a favor." He shoots for casual and falls short, but Raven merely arches an eyebrow. He moves his hand from behind his back, holding up a pair of scissors with a faint smile. "I was hoping you could help me cut my hair."

Raven's other eyebrow joins the first. "Really?"

He shrugs, keeping his smile firmly fixed in place. "Why not? You used to do it all the time when we were in Oxford."

Everything still feels stiff and awkward between them, but Raven takes the scissors from his hands with a cautious smile of her own. "How short do you want it?" she asks as she leads Charles down the hall to the bathroom.

Charles perches on the edge of the tub, setting his cane on the floor with a contemplative frown. "Short," he decides, running his hand through it. "I could use a change."

Her lips press together in a thin line at that, but she doesn't argue and he buries his accusations over her attachment to Erik in that special corner of his mind. He doesn't hate Erik anymore, no, but it's still hard to reconcile with the fact that his once-friend still holds a large piece of his sister's heart.

_I think she loved you, Erik. And I wish I could hate you for it. _

"Fine," Raven says, in a casual tone Charles knows is forced. "I can do short."

Charles closes his eyes and tries to convince himself that this is progress.

* * *

><p>He sits in the armchair and stares at the dust-coated chessboard for the thousandth time.<p>

Like all the times before, he reaches out and hovers a hand over the black bishop. This was the move Erik had been ready to execute, he's sure of it. He's _been _sure of it since that night before the end, when they parted with a bitter argument still hanging between them. Because he thinks sometimes that he knew Erik better than he knew himself.

And yet, somehow, didn't know him at all.

With a frustrated sigh, the telepath forces his hand to move, clutching the bishop and sliding it across the board, capturing the white knight.

Two moves to checkmate.

He drops his hand back into his lap and glances at Erik's old coat for the thousandth time.

_I miss you, _he thinks and wishes it wasn't true.

* * *

><p>"I like the haircut," Alex says one day in the middle of breakfast, surprising him. "It makes you look younger."<p>

"Less … Professor-like," Sean adds around a mouthful of toast and Hank, out of his lab for the first time in weeks, nods his agreement over his mug of coffee.

Raven reaches out and ruffles his short hair gently—affection in her eyes that he's been desperately missing. "Well of course it looks good. I'm a great hair stylist."

Charles smiles at them—all together again, and looking more whole than they have since the beach—and tries not to cry from the foreign sensation of hope swelling in his chest.

"Thank you," he replies, sitting carefully down at the table and reaching for a piece of toast.

Everyone's eyes flick to his leg and he knows he wasn't able to completely hide a grimace, but no one says anything and the light mood doesn't shatter. Charles bites down another pleased smile as he butters the toast.

_They're okay, Erik. We're okay. Are you? _

For the first time, he wishes for an answer.

* * *

><p>Snow is seeping into his back, but he can barely feel it past the warm joy rushing through him—strong enough to drown out even the searing agony in his leg.<p>

Three hundred steps.

If that isn't progress, he doesn't know what is.

* * *

><p>He has good days and bad days and terrible days, but he's learning to fight his way through them all. He watches the boys bicker and fight and act like brothers while Raven bosses and scolds and continues to grow up—beautiful and stunning in a way she always was but he never noticed. They continue to train while Hank tinkers in his lab, building new armor for Alex and a better set of wings for Sean and some dangerous-looking training gear for Raven that he hardly approves of.<p>

He wishes Erik could be here to witness it all, and tells himself that he's moving on.

He's moving on even if it's hard to get out of bed on some mornings and he still finds uncontrollable tears wetting his pillow some nights. The despair is receding and so is the crushing grief, leaving behind a matching ache in his chest and leg that he knows he will carry with him for the rest of his life.

And he's okay with that, more often than not.

* * *

><p>Halfway down the driveway now and if a few tears leak from the corners of his eyes, they are the good kind that he doesn't bother to wipe away.<p>

Grinning up at the falling snow, he thinks that he might actually be happy.

_I hope you're moving on, Erik. Wherever you are. _

He doesn't add, _just don't forget me, _because he's not that weak.

* * *

><p>"It's cold up here," Sean grumbles, shifting his position and accidentally knocking heads with Alex, who swears and elbows him, jostling him into Raven, who in turn glares at them both until they settle back down into their places in the circle.<p>

Charles chuckles, ignoring their antics in favor of gazing up at the star-spattered sky.

"The view's really beautiful, though," Hank murmurs and his awe-filled eyes look silver instead of gold in the moonlight.

"We used to come up here a lot, when we were kids," Raven adds from his other side and her hand brushes his, making him believe that things can be okay between them again, someday.

"That we did," he agrees. "We held contests to see who could name the most constellations."

Sean laughs at that. "I bet the Professor always won."

"Of course he did," Raven grumbles good-naturedly. "He's a genius."

"I let you win once and awhile, if I recall correctly," Charles teases back and gets an elbow in his side in retaliation, knocking the air from his lungs. He glares at Raven without any real fire behind it and she grins back cheekily.

Oh, how he's missed this. Missed her.

"That's the Big Dipper," Alex says suddenly, lifting a hand to point at the sky. "And there's the Little Dipper."

"There's Gemini and Taurus," Hank adds. "And Pegasus, Pisces, and Aquarius."

"Dude…" Sean mutters, sounding completely lost, while Raven laughs.

"I think you might have some competition, Charles." She nudges him again.

Charles smiles faintly over at Hank. "I believe I do."

Hank beams at him—teeth white and sharp in the darkness. "I like constellations," he says innocently, turning back to the sky. "That's Cetus, and Cassiopeia. Oh, and there's Lyra, Cancer, and…"

"Bozo," Alex interjects—an eye roll clear in his voice, but fondness as well. "We get it."

Sean snickers as Hank reaches over to smack Alex and Raven mutters, "idiots," under her breath.

Charles closes his eyes and drinks it in.

The feeling is growing in his chest, still. Happiness—he can almost taste it.

_Oh, my friend, why did you throw this away?_

* * *

><p>Three-quarters of the way down the drive.<p>

Alex has to carry him back, berating him for his stupidity the whole why, while Hank hovers and pours out statistic after statistic to back up Alex's arguments as to why he shouldn't be this careless with his health.

He drowns them out, too caught up in his triumph. He's almost there. The driveway has become something to conquer, and when he reaches the coveted finish line, he knows that something in his heart will finally be able to let go.

Call it silly, but he's learned to trust his instincts.

Erik taught him that, and for once, he isn't bitter.

* * *

><p>He has good days and bad days and terrible days, but he's learning to fight his way through them all.<p>

He still can't bring himself to turn on the TV, even though the others continue to train, because he doesn't want to find another war waiting on his doorstep. Even when he hated Erik, he didn't know how to think of him as an enemy, and that might be his downfall, but right now he doesn't care.

It might be cowardly, hiding in the bubble of peace and safety the mansion has become, and ignoring the outside world that continues to rocket forward, but he doesn't' care about that, either.

Healing is a delicate process, and he's moving on.

He's moving on, even though he still doesn't what to say to Raven ninety percent of the time and he still can't bring himself to finish that stupid game of chess. The ghosts still cling, but he's getting better at shaking them off, day by painful day, and soon he will exorcise them forever.

Then, he will be able to screw up that courage he's still missing and step back into the flow of the world.

But he isn't sure if he'll ever be able to think of Erik Lehnsherr as Magneto and more often than not, he's okay with that.

* * *

><p><em>Step. Gasp. Step. <em>

He's almost there—can see the tantalizing end of the driveway, lined with bare trees and marked by an old wrought-iron gate. Just a little bit further…

_Today, I'm going to make it to the end. Just watch me, Erik. _

There are black spots dancing across his vision from the pain, but he pushes onward, staggering toward that precious goal he's been chasing after for months.

Almost there…

_Step. Gasp, choke. Step. _

It hurts like a thousand knives up and down his leg, but he grits his teeth and refuses to give in. He isn't weak. Not today. Not anymore.

At last … at last, he reaches the end of the drive, grasping onto the wrought iron bars with numb fingers. Resting his head against the cool metal, he feels laughter bubbling in his throat and lets it go gladly.

Soon, it's wracking his shoulders with its intensity and he steps back from the gate, managing to spin in a small, triumphant circle—whooping up at the winter sky—before he collapses into the snow.

He lies there for a long time—laughing and crying and healing.

Just like he predicted, something shakes loose. Starts to breathe again.

_I did it, Erik. I did it._

* * *

><p>"Would you be angry with me?" Raven asks one night in the kitchen, surprising him midway through getting alcohol out of the fridge in the hopes that it might help him sleep. "If I went to join Erik?"<p>

He settles the bottle back in the fridge with a quiet sigh. This has been a long time coming, but he still doesn't know what to do.

The truth. He can start with that. "No. Of course not."

She frowns darkly, standing near the table with crossed arms, and a sense of déjà vu washes over Charles. "You're not just saying that, are you?"

He shakes his head, making a decision and opening the freezer instead. "No. I promise. I won't be angry." He rummages around inside until he finds the tub of ice cream. Pulling it out, he shuffles to the cutlery drawer and retrieves two spoons—nervously aware of Raven's assessing eyes on him. Forcing himself to remain calm, he moves back over to the kitchen table and sets down the ice cream before sinking into one of the chairs and smiling up at her. "Have a seat?"

She frowns at the ice cream, but sits down opposite him and reaches for a spoon. "Are you trying to bribe me?" she asks, half-serious, and he shakes his head.

"No." He glances down at the old wood of the table with another faint sigh. "But I think we need to talk." A weary chuckle escapes him. "And ice cream always seemed to help with that, if my memory serves me correctly."

Raven opens the carton with deft fingers—the ghost of a smile on her face. "It did."

He steels himself as he watches her scoop out a large spoonful. Honesty, no matter the cost. "There are some things I need to say," he begins with far more caution than he would have liked.

Raven frowns around her spoon, swallowing her first bite and regarding him warily, but not without her usual defiance. "So say them."

"Thank you for staying," he says immediately, attempting a smile at her startled expression. "I don't think I ever told you that."

"You didn't have to," she replies, but he can see the lie in her expression and he's glad he did.

"Secondly, you're beautiful, Raven, and I'm sorry for not seeing that sooner." She looks even more startled by this admission and Charles' heart aches, because she shouldn't be so surprised to hear praise from him. Reaching across the table, he grasps her hand tightly, feeling the scales rough against his palm. "I'm so sorry, Raven," he whispers, peering into her gold eyes. "You're stunning. In any form you change into. I'm sorry I couldn't give you what you needed back then."

"Charles…" Raven murmurs, looking blindsided. Her eyes are wet.

"Thirdly," Charles continues through the hitch in his voice, "if you want to leave, I won't begrudge you it. I know how much Erik and his cause mean to you. You don't need to sacrifice any more for me, Raven." He squeezes her hand, hoping it conveys his sincerity. "I need you to know that."

She's quiet, head bowed so he can't see her expression, and her hand trembles in his grip. "Charles…" she says again and there's a broken edge to her voice that grates against his heart.

"I love you, Raven," he continues, leaning across the table to he can run gentle fingers through her red hair. "And I always will. No matter what choice you make."

She moves in a blur of blue, untangling her hand from his and rushing around the table so she can crush him in her arms. He gasps as she knocks the breath out of him, nearly tipping his chair over as she buries her face in his neck. He can feel her tears coating his skin, dripping down onto his shirt, and he hurriedly lifts his hands to hold her back.

Then he's crying, too, sobbing against her as he clings to the last thing he has left. If she leaves, he'll let her go, but it will break him all over again.

He can take it, though. He has to. Letting go is what you do for the people you love.

Erik taught him that, too.

"Charles," she's murmuring over and over, clenching the back of his shirt tightly in her fists. He thinks he hears "I love you, too" and "I'm staying, you idiot" mixed in, as well, and it prompts the tears to mount another assault, tumbling down his already soaked cheeks.

Her mind is bright and beautiful, buzzing around him, and he rocks her back and forth as she settles into his lap, crying out months of pent up grief, confusion, anger, and pain. At last, they both quiet, but remain tangled together. She lifts her head to rest against his, loosening her grip on his shirt in favor of slinging an arm around his shoulders, letting him cradle her as he did when they were kids and she came to him for comfort.

"I'm sorry, too, Charles," she says after another long moment of silence that finally doesn't suffocate. "I should have never doubted how much you care for me."

"It's alright," he murmurs back. "I haven't been a very good brother, I'm afraid."

She plants a soft kiss on his temple. "I'll forgive you if you'll forgive me."

He smiles in spite of the tears still drying on his cheeks. "Deal."

Lifting her head, Raven glances back at the table and frowns. "The ice cream melted all over the place."

Charles chuckles, grinning cheekily up at her and finally feeling young. "Milkshakes it is, then."

Her laughter is the sweetest sound he's heard in months.

* * *

><p>He sits in the armchair and stares at the dust-coated chessboard for the thousandth time.<p>

This time, when he raises his hand over the board, he reaches for the white king. His fingers hover over the piece as he takes a deep breath.

After six and half months, it's time to let go.

Before he can second guess himself, he knocks the white king over, letting it fall flat on the board in surrender.

_I forgive you, Erik. _

Something shakes loose, settles over him like a warm blanket. With a sobbing laugh, he realizes what it is—what's he's been so desperately missing all this time.

Serenity.

Closing his eyes, he tilts his head back and breathes it in.

The ache is still there, ever-present, but that precious peace has settled in beside it. He's finally ready to move on. Getting up from the armchair, he leaves the room without a backward glance, shutting the door on the ghosts.

_Good-bye, my friend._

* * *

><p>He has good days and bad days and terrible days, but he's learning to fight through them all.<p>

He still misses Erik fiercely, but the ghosts no longer cling and he no longer falls asleep crying into his pillow. He's not in a million pieces anymore and even though it's still hard to get out of bed on some mornings, he knows that he's putting himself back together, bit by painful bit.

Still, it isn't always easy. Like today. Today has been hard.

He sighs as he hears a knock on the front door, burying his head in his arms momentarily and wishing that he hadn't sent the others out for groceries earlier. The knocking continues and a pinprick of fear enters his mind.

What if the CIA has found them?

Taking a shuddering breath, he rises slowly, gritting his teeth against the pain sparking through his leg. Today has been a terrible day, naturally. Why would his enemies have good timing?

He sets his cane aside, not wanting to appear weak or vulnerable, and shuffles to the door, doing his best to mask the limp. With another steeling breath, he flings open the door, ready to greet the war if need be—to do whatever necessary to keep his haven safe from the claws of the enemy.

Or so he thought.

Blinking, he feels the air rush from his lungs in a shocked gasp, and the blood freezes in his veins just like the ice slowly melting off the tress.

Erik Lehnsherr is standing on his doorstep.

* * *

><p><strong>See? Told you I'm evil. Sorry about that. I have a love affair with cliffhangers that I can't seem to get over. <strong>

**Once again, the next update should be coming fairly soon-ish. Thanks for all your support!**


	5. Blindsided

**So, wow guys. I looked at the last updated date for this and realized that it's been over a month. How did that happen? **

**Sorry about that. "Fairly soon-ish" was not meant to be this long, I swear. Thanks everyone for your patience. And I'm sorry this is so short. A month and a half and I don't even have a respectable update for you. I fail at life. **

**Anyway, on a better note, I have sequel of sorts up for _The King's Gambit. _It isn't much, just a three-shot, and fairly simple, but hopefully it will entertain you guys. The first part is posted. It's called _Shelter, _if anyone wants to check it out. **

**In case anyone is interested. The title and inspiration for this chapter come from Bon Iver's song Blindsided. Like all their music, it's absolutely gorgeous, so I recommend giving it a listen. :) **

**As always, feedback is welcome! **

* * *

><p>Erik Lehnsherr is standing on his doorstep.<p>

For a long moment, the world holds its breath as he struggles to wrap his mind around that fact—stands there gaping wide-eyed at the ghost who has decided to grace his doorstep.

"Hello, Charles," the phantom says finally, sounding pinched and nervous and not like Erik at all.

"I'm dreaming," Charles decides brokenly, clenching his fingers on the edge of the door until his knuckles bleach as white as the snow outside. "Over I've finally gone mad."

Because Erik looks almost normal—helmetless and clad in pressed pants and a familiar turtleneck. All he's missing is his leather jacket, but that's thrown over the armchair in the study—dust coated and just about forgotten. Erik looks normal and if it weren't for the throbbing pain in his leg and the fierce ache in his chest, Charles would wonder if the beach had been the dream and he's just now waking.

"You haven't gone mad," Erik is saying when he focuses again, still sounding like sandpaper over gravel.

Charles' fingers start to tremble and he wonders what he should feel. Anger? Hate? Hope? Joy? "What…" his voice dies in his throat, forcing him to swallow and start again. "What are you doing here?"

"I have to talk to you." Erik sounds desperate and now that he's looking, Charles can see dark circles set deep in too pale skin and clothes that hang off a frame far skinnier than he remembers. "Just for a little bit."

He should shut the door, the rational part of his mind tells him. He exorcised the ghosts, he said good-bye, he forgave and he moved on. This should be _over. _Over and finished and dead. He doesn't owe Erik Lehnsherr anything.

And yet … yet … "Alright," he whispers in surrender, swinging the door open wider.

He's never been good at saying no to Erik.

The metal manipulator steps across the threshold cautiously, as though he's entering a lion's den, and it's so ridiculous Charles wants to laugh. Erik Lehnsherr, who drove a coin through a man's skull, lifted a submarine, beat him into submission, and then drove a bullet through his leg, is_ afraid_ of him.

Except, that's not really funny at all.

He closes the door behind Erik, watching as the other man tries to hide a flinch at the echoing sound.

The silence is oppressive as Erik lingers in the entryway, crossing his arms over his chest and looking anywhere but Charles' face.

Charles reaches desperately for calm. "Why are you here, Erik?"

"I…" Erik jerks to a stop, running an agitated hand through his hair. He cut it recently, Charles notes with a jolt, and there's stubble dusting his jaw. He looks so different from the man who played chess with him, from the man who betrayed him, and he's not sure whether to be thankful or cautious.

Erik regards him with a frown, dropping his hand back to his side. "You cut your hair," he murmurs, sounding desperate for a distraction.

"Yes." It comes out clipped and just short of vicious.

Erik flinches and Charles berates himself. He's better than this. Taking a deep breath, he tries again. "Why are you here, Erik?"

"Did you mean it?" Erik blurts out, curling his fingers into fists that tremble at his sides. "All those things you said?"

Charles sucks in a sharp breath, feeling as though he's been slapped. "T-things?"

"Yes," Erik's voice is wrecked— impatient and full of emotion. "About forgiving me and moving on and…" Another crack, gulping breath of air, and there's something shattered in Erik's eyes. "Did you mean it?"

Charles wants to cry, or laugh, or scream until he can't breathe. Erik heard him. Dear _God, _Erik _heard_ him. "Yes," he chokes out around the tears pricking at his eyes. "Yes, I meant it."

Erik looks like he doesn't know whether to run away or break down sobbing. The silence hovers again, thick enough to choke on, and Charles wishes he knew what to say.

At last, Erik shakes his head with a hint of desperation. "No. No you _can't _have meant it." His eyes blaze with an emotion Charles can't define, but he doesn't dare reach out and try to look. Everything is so fragile now, so surreal, and he's afraid that the slightest mistake will shatter this beyond repair.

He can't pick up the pieces all over again. He's not that strong.

He wants to hate Erik for this, but he can't bring himself to do that, either. Not when his old friend looks as lost and broken and frayed as he is.

"You can't have meant it," Erik repeats, sounding more certain now. "What are you playing at?"

Charles feels a rush of familiar irritation. "Erik, I'm not…"

"Sean, be careful with those!" Raven's voice carries through the closed door, followed by car doors slamming and feet crunching on the gravel drive.

Erik freezes, looking remarkably like a deer caught in a hunter's light. Charles swallows nervously, fighting down the urge to make the others leave again – at least until he figures out what to say to Erik. At the same time, the familiar hum of their minds is a welcome balm to the storm raging through his soul.

However he wants to act, it's too late. Hank is throwing open the door, freezing as he catches sight of Erik. There's a moment where everything hovers, suspended with disbelief and shock. Then, the world explodes into violent motion.

Hank drops his bag of groceries and lunges for Erik with a deep, primal snarl. Erik doesn't fight back as he's grabbed by the throat and slammed into the wall hard enough to force a gasp of pain from his mouth.

"Hank!" Charles shouts, though he expected nothing less. The others have gathered in the doorway, gaping in stunned incredulity as Hank strangles Erik.

"What are _you_ doing here?" The scientist growls viciously, pressing Erik harder into the wall.

Erik's hands come up, instinctively grasping Hank's wrist as he struggles for air. Charles hurries forward, wondering frantically why Erik isn't fighting, isn't lashing out with his powers in order to defend himself.

"Hank, stop!" Charles reaches for his shoulder, clasping onto cloth and blue fur and pulling. "Let him go!" He extends his telepathy, hoping to use it to force Hank into releasing Erik, whose hands have fallen limp and lifeless to his sides again. "_Stop!" _

Hank roars again, furious, and throws Charles off. He tries to catch his balance, but with his bad leg it's impossible and he hits the carpeted floor of the entryway much too hard. White-hot pain surges through his leg, blacking out his vision, and a scream punches free before he can stop it.

"Charles!" Raven, and suddenly there are warm hands on his face, smoothing over his brow.

Distantly, he can hear Erik coughing and Hank babbling horrified apologies, but everything is drowning beneath the pain rapidly setting his veins on fire. He manages to raise a trembling hand, brushing his fingers across Raven's. "I think…" he forces out around the screams still lodged in his throat. "…I need to lie down."

He can't tell if Raven laughs or cries in response to that.

* * *

><p>Raven watches Hank carefully lay Charles down in his bed, pulling the covers up over her unconscious brother. She half suspects Charles put himself under, to escape the pain, and if Hank didn't look so guilt-riddled she would hit him.<p>

"Everyone out," she barks, feeling the anger sparking through her, begging for release. The boys exchange hesitant glances, looking more shaken than she's seen them in a long time, and she shoots them a dark glare to motivate them. "_Now." _

They frown in protest, but shuffle out together, shooting furtive, disbelieving glances at Erik as they go. Erik moves to follow, but Raven quickly turns her glare on him. Speaking of someone she wants to hit. "Except you. You stay."

He freezes in the doorway, staring at her like he can't quite believe what he's hearing. He looks pale and haggard, barely cobbled together, and the part of her that has always wished she took his hand wants to hold him.

The rest of her is _furious_.

Before she's fully aware of what she's doing, her feet are carrying her across the room in swift strides. With a frustrated, broken snarl of anger, she punches Erik in the face. Her fist connects with his jaw hard enough to send him staggering back several steps, and he instantly clutches his bleeding mouth, staring at her with incredulous eyes. She wants to hit him again—punch that look away because, _yes, _she's grown up, but that doesn't give him the right to stare at her like he's never seen her before—but she manages to hold herself back.

Attacking with words will work just as well. "That was for Charles," she spits at him, relishing his flinch. "Now, tell me what you're doing here, you _bastard." _

He takes a deep breath, dropping his hand from his face. There's blood on his fingers and around his mouth and she can't help but remember the bloody hand he held up to her on the beach, promising a future she couldn't take.

"I suppose I deserved that," he says evenly, voice laced with steel.

She crosses her arms and glares, silently demanding he get to the point.

"I just …" He tugs idly on one of his shirt sleeves and shifts his weight almost nervously. Heaven help her, Erik Lehnsherr is _fidgeting. _That would be hilarious under any other circumstances. He gets himself under control quickly, though, stiffening his shoulders in an old, familiar show of defiance. "I just needed to ask him something."

"Ask him _what?" _She presses.

Erik glances at the bed—an emotion she can't place in his blue eyes. "I … what's wrong with him?"

"What do you _think?_" It comes out a half yell and Erik flinches again, paling another shade. When he looks at Charles again, his gaze is full of horrified denial.

"No…"

"Yeah." There's months of anger and grief packed into the single word, and she really thought she was moving past all of this—growing up and leaving Erik and all his big, sweeping plans behind—but maybe the wounds ran deeper that she realized. "You sure did a lot of damage, Erik."

Erik keeps his gaze fixed on Charles, but Raven can see the tremors rattling his hand—the dismay and guilt pulsing through him—and strangely enough, it gives her hope. "When … when will he heal?"

The ever-present ache in her chest stabs at her again and she has to close her eyes against the pain. "Never," she whispers and feels Erik's startled gaze jerk to her.

"What?" He chokes.

She forces her eyes open to take in his stunned expression. "He'll never heal."

Erik makes a wounded noise deep in his throat, whipping back around to face Charles as he frantically shakes his head. "No … no … there must be…"

"There's nothing we can do. The doctor said there was too much nerve and muscle damage. He'll be in pain for the rest of his life." Her voice shakes in spite of the calm mask she's trying desperately to project. "It's a miracle he can walk."

Erik looks ready to collapse and Raven is sure that his grip on the bedpost is the only thing keeping him upright. The image isn't right—nothing like the Erik she expected him to be by now, confident and self-assured, ready to conquer the world—and she's not sure what to do.

"Why are you here, Erik?" she asks again.

"I don't know," Erik whispers in reply, sliding his gaze from Charles to the floor.

"You said you had to ask him something?" She takes a hesitant step forward, wondering if she should rest a hand on his arm, if he would shrug it off if she did. "What is it?"

"If he forgives me." It's spoken so softly she almost doesn't catch it, but it still blindsides her.

"W-what?"

"For months now … whenever I'm not wearing the helmet … I've been … I've heard his voice, in my head. And he said … he said he forgives me. I have … I have to know if that's true." He rests his head against the bedpost, looking caught somewhere between laughing and crying.

Oh, Charles. Her stupid, incredible brother with a heart too big for his chest.

"I'm sure it is," she says, sparing a fond glance at Charles' sleeping face. "Charles has always been good at forgiving."

"He can't," Erik grits out. "Not for this."

Raven isn't sure what to say to that and so the silence settles in. Erik looks worn and haggard, leaning against the edge of the bed. He's lost weight, Raven can tell, and his hair is nothing like she remembers—short and messy, with the beginnings of a beard across his jaw.

No, this isn't the Erik she imagined at all.

Still draped in silence, she watches Erik reach out a hand as though to touch Charles' face, but he stops a few inches from her brother's skin, quickly pulling his hand back to his side. "I should go."

His quiet declaration sends a jolt of fear down her spine. He _can't _leave—not when there's so much hope lurking beneath his guilt, so much promise for a future where he belongs again.

"Erik Lehnsherr, if you walk out that door I'll never forgive you," she declares.

He turns to her in surprise. "Raven…"

"I will _never _forgive you," she repeats firmly, crossing her arms again and pinning him with her best glare.

"I don't belong here," he protests with a shake of his head. "I'm not welcome anymore." He raises a hand to his neck, where she's certain bruises are forming beneath the protective cover of his turtleneck.

She wants to tell him that isn't true. That even though she's mad at him, she wants him back in their lives, back home, safe and sound where he belongs. But she can't speak for the boys.

"I want you here," she says instead, smiling inwardly at his blindsided look.

He opens his mouth, only to clamp it shut again when no sound comes out, and runs an agitated hand through his hair.

"Why did you come back?" she asks again, following her gut instinct that's always made it easy for her to read people.

He makes a frustrated sound, scowling at her. "I told you."

"That's not the only reason." She layers her voice with a certainty she doesn't feel and watches his expression crumble slightly.

"No," he admits reluctantly. "I wanted … I had to know that you were safe. All of you. I couldn't … I couldn't stop wondering. No matter what I did." When he looks up at her the defiance is back. "But you _are _fine. You don't need me here."

She laughs incredulously—a mirthless sound that makes Erik wince. "Erik, you're _blind _if we look fine to you. We're getting better, yes, but we're _not _fine."

"I'll only complicate things," Erik insists. "You're better off without me."

He hasn't mentioned his cause yet, she notes, the grand purpose he laid out for them on the beach, and she wonders why. Now hardly seems the time to ask, though. "Don't play the martyr, Erik," she says instead, frowning at him. "It doesn't fit you."

Erik glares at her with tightly restrained fury that can't completely mask his panic and doesn't offer a retort. Raven takes a cautious step forward. "I want you here," she repeats. And there is one person she can speak for. "And so does Charles."

Erik shakes his head again—the panic welling in his eyes as glances from her to Charles and back again. "No. I can't stay here…"

Two more quick steps and she's wrapping her arms around him. The words die in his throat and he goes still in her hold. She grabs onto the back of his shirt as tightly as she can manage without hurting him and buries her face in his neck.

"Stay." She tries to sound demanding instead of desperate, but she doubts she succeeds. "Please, Erik. Just for a little while, at least."

There's a long moment of silence before Erik surrenders. "Okay," he murmurs. "For a little while."

She pulls him closer and if she feels a few tears wet her hair, she doesn't mention it.

* * *

><p>Charles wakes up to the sight of Erik fast asleep in the arm chair by his bed—bathed in yellow lamplight. It's … surprising, to say the least.<p>

"Oh," he says, watching as Erik jerks awake and blinks at him with wide eyes, "I wasn't dreaming, then."

Erik leans forward swiftly, reaching out a hand. "Are you okay?" He pulls up short, grimacing slightly before withdrawing, and Charles can see the chasm between them—spider-web cracks in a glass mirror.

They splinter in the silence and Charles sits up, puts his hands in his lap and wonders what he's supposed to say. "You stayed," is the first thing that comes to mind.

Erik sinks back in the chair—hands fluttering briefly, like wayward butterflies, before he settles them stiffly on the armrests—and nods. "Yeah. Raven asked me to." There's an unspoken question lurking beneath his words.

Charles tries to force a smile, because he's glad, he really is, but nothing comes and he curls his fingers into his palm instead. "That's good."

Erik's eyes drift to his leg and dread forms a lead ball in Charles' stomach. "Raven told you," he guesses, voice flat and hard. He didn't want Erik to know about this, didn't want the pity he can see blossoming in the other man's eyes.

"Yes," Erik stammers, looking away. Another crack mars the mirror and the chasm widens. Charles wants to scream.

"Stop it," he snaps—fingernails scratching at his pant legs.

Erik flinches, jerking his gaze back to meet Charles' eyes. "Stop what?" he asks with forced calm and Charles fights against the rage waiting to boil over.

"You don't get to pity me, Erik. I don't want it from anyone, least of all you."

Steel layers over the guilt and pain in Erik's eyes, even as he tries to hide a flinch. "Fine," he says—tone clipped and mask perfect. "Wasn't my fault anyway."

There are still so many cracks. Charles can see them all—chinks in Erik's armor, iron and steel slowly melting away. This isn't the Erik from the beach, even though he's pretending to be.

"Yes it was," Charles whispers, watching the shadows contrast with the gleaming blue of Erik's eyes.

Erik's fingers scrap against the armrests and he swallows sharply. They're on the edge of something, Charles can tell, be it compromise or the end of everything. He keeps himself silent, because he's never been good at saying the right thing, and watches Erik wage a familiar war against himself.

"Yes," the metal manipulator murmurs after a tense moment, thick and heavy with defeat. "It was."

Charles lets go of the breath he's been holding and tries to keep himself from weeping. How did it all come to this? What course did they set for themselves that resulted in being so broken? He wants to fix this, fix Erik and the boys and Raven—everything—but he's not sure he can. Has Erik really come back or is a mere shell occupying the armchair—existing only because of leftover guilt, ready to vanish again in a blaze of revolution as soon as the guilt is gone?

He's never wanted answers more in his life.

He can't look into Erik's mind. He won't.

"I'm sorry," Erik says and somehow, Charles doesn't cry. "I'm so sorry."

"No," he replies, finally managing a weak smile. "I've already forgiven you."

Erik looks puzzled again—a mixture of shock and doubt darkening his face. "How can you mean that?"

Charles shrugs, wondering again if this is some kind of dream. Any moment, he's going to wake up to the others returning with the groceries and life will make sense again. "Revenge and hatred is a waste of time."

"I don't believe you," Erik grits out—eyes sparking with familiar fire. Maybe there's something left of Magneto in Erik, after all, and the thought makes Charles' chest hurt. "No one's that forgiving."

Charles laughs because that's so typical _Erik_—stubborn to a fault and so terrified of trust it's tragic—and for moment it almost feels like nothing's changed. Except his laugh sounds bitter and frail even to his own ears, and Erik is too-thin and jagged-edged, and _everything _has changed.

"Charles…" Erik sounds more uncertain that Charles has ever heard, and _that's_ even funnier, so he laughs harder.

"I should have expected this," he chokes out around the laughter, feeling a few tears run down his face. "Of course you would show up the minute I've let it all go. That's how life works, isn't it?"

"Charles…" Erik shifts and suddenly there's a hand on his shoulder—warm and solid and full of old memories.

The laughter cuts off and Charles jerks away like he's been burned. It's reflexive, more shock that Erik was the first to initiate contact than disgust or revulsion, but Erik backs up so quickly he nearly trips over her own feet.

"I'm sorry," he says again, stiffly. Charles can sense him pulling away, feel the retreat of his mind—the intent to leave that is broadcasting so loudly not even his multitude of barriers can block it out—and he panics.

Surging off the bed, he grasps on Erik's sleeve, yanking the other man to a halt. "No," he grits out as Erik turns to him in surprise. "You don't get to do that either."

"Do what?" Again with that forced calm, and if Charles were a more violent person this would be where he punches Erik in the face.

Instead, he tightens his grip on the other man's sleeve. "What you did on the beach. Run away."

"I'm not running away." Charles hears the sharp edge to Erik's voice and wants to laugh. Some of Erik's pride is still intact, it would seem.

"Yes, you are," he argues back. "I said before I could make you stay, but I wouldn't. Now, I'm not so sure."

Erik's jaw clenches and he glares fiercely. "You _wouldn't." _It's a barely controlled snarl, meant to intimidate, but Charles is angry enough not to be affected.

"I would," he bites back, tightening his grip to bruising. "You came back for a reason. A part of you must want to fix this." Erik looks ready to protest, but Charles doesn't give him the chance. "_I _want to fix this." Erik's mouth snaps shut. "Believe me or don't, but it's true."

There's another moment of hovering silence before Erik sags in his grip, sighing out in his anger in one long breath. "Yes," he admits. "I want to fix this."

There are a thousand questions Charles wants to ask: why now? What about Erik's crusade? The other mutants who left the beach with him? Emma Frost, who he broke out of the CIA? The helmet and Magneto and the promise to destroy humanity? Is this game? A dream?

Does Charles still really matter to him, after a bullet and a beach and a coin?

But now isn't the time. Now, he merely nods in exhausted, amazed relief and squeezes Erik's shoulder. Erik doesn't smile at him, but his eyes have softened into a look Charles remembers, after a satellite dish and a victory.

It isn't much. In fact, it's barely anything at all. But it _is _a start. Somehow, impossibly, it's a start.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay, guys, I'm swear I'm going to try to have the next update posted sooner than a month and a half. I've got it all planned help, so hopefully that will make things go faster. Now to just sort of the issue of an appalling lack of free time... <strong>


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